The Artist
by CthulhuHasCake
Summary: What if Joker found someone more fun than Batman? Is Gotham big enough for two Psychopathic Superstars or will the very presence of the other turn Gotham from a play ground into a battlefield? Destruction has never looked so beautiful. Based losely on the song 'Dyeing Breed '.
1. Chapter One:Party For One

Okay, just to be clear I have no idea where I'm going with this. I've written fanfics before and I never seem to follow through with them so I'm not making any promises guys. But I do want to write more and the categories may change as I do because all I stared of with was a stupid idea I had at 4 in the morning.

* * *

Chapter One:Party For One

Ivory White stood on the brink of destruction, the beauty of the chaos she created filling her with an addictive rush which was fleeting and sweet and would soon need replenishing. Below her she could hear their muffled pleading, interrupting her moment of euphoric bliss like a knife in an open wound. Her annoyance lead her to proceed, the thought of the moment no longer satisfying her insane lust to purge. Gotham was silent tonight, not a peaceful silence, but the silence of held breath. This city was in a constant state of unease and Ivory felt like royalty as she considered it her hostage, her concrete victim to do with as she pleased.

On the edge of the Narrows, in a desolate and decrepit neighbourhood crippled by crime and dilapidated beyond the imagination, on a high building of broken down council flats, stood a small fragile figure. Ivory looked over Gotham, draped in beautiful darkness, the lights of the city shone like beacons of hope, as if the city refused to roll over and die and would resist the hand of fate until its dying breath. Ivory smiled, her prey – no. . . her audience was perfect.

She turned away from the city to her current company. On top this monument of Gothams poverty along with this child of destruction were eighteen nobody's. Tied up and gagged. The roof of the building was rotting and part of it had collapsed in, revealing the top floor of the council flats. Ivory looked down through the splintered gap into the first floor where her victims lay, crawling and wriggling over one another. Some pleading, some crying. But all fearing her. She had neglected the blindfolds, she wanted them to see her, to know her as their demise.

She had chosen them not at random, but yet random all the same. A banker to represent her hatred for money and the idea of its privileged position in society. Along with this man of whom was short and stubby with an extremely unconvincing comb over were his two colleagues, the owner of the Gotham Merchants bank and the head of the treasury. They lay on the floor like the sacks of papery lies they lived for. However they didn't all mean something, other than the bankers, two cops, a judge, a news reporter and some guy she just happened to be interviewing about the state of Gothams park benches, meant nothing to her and were just unlucky to cross her path. These unlucky individuals consisted of a group of girls no older than Ivory who had been out partying and unluckily got into the wrong cab, two families who's homes she had broken into, one of which had a four year old son at school at the time who she had spared out of nothing more than convenience and a smattering of plain ordinary people, Gothamites. Here she had the city, her own private part of it in her grasp. These were the people, the chosen few who would help her transformation. Ivory loved them all in a twisted way, she loved them and would remember them as some sort of family to her, even as they looked up at her with fear stricken faces and sorrowful moans.

She felt the rush hit her again. _Just a little longer,_ she thought to herself, j_ust a little longer and then I'll do it, just hold on for a little longer is all. _

Today was her birthday, she was eighteen. And these were her candles. But these were no ordinary candles, these were the souls that would set her path in fire forever. This was the brink of destruction because after this night Ivory white would die forever, she would be a criminal, they would peruse her and her life would be changed forever. Many times had she got to this point and retreated, too scared to make the leap from dreams to reality, too scared to make the leap into free fall. But not tonight.

Tonight she was a woman, not a girl and tonight she would do it, this time. She narrowed her eyes and watched her victims squirm for a little longer relishing her high. She reached for a can of gasoline and begun to sprinkle her candles, dancing and signing as she did. It was different this time, there could be no going back.

It then occurred to her that she should have some proper music on her birthday and reaching for her phone she searched her music library for something . . . fitting, passing up Numa Numa and the Pokemon theme tune despite their amusing appeal. Finally resting her thumb on the last song she'd hear as Ivory White. And the first as her new self.

_Is this the real life, or is this fantasy_

She smiled to herself, as she put her earphones in, this was both a song for her funeral and her christening. Her victims watched her intently, on edge as they felt fear grip them and their helplessness choke their hope of rescue.

_caught in a land slide, no escape from reality. Open you eyes look up to the sky's and seeeeee. . . . _

The song went on, her singing it as if it would be the last time she could sing. She again picked up the gasoline and dowsed her hostages, more than necessary, but hey, it was her birthday. She threw the can off the building in an eccentric over arm throw, spreading her hands out as if she were about to bow.

_Cause its easy come, easy go, little hight, little low._

"Cause its easy come, easy go, little hight, little low".

She flipped her lighter cap

_Anyway the wind blow, doesn't really matter to me._

"Anyway the wind blow, doesn't really matter to me".

She pulled her thumb down the jagged switch igniting the flame.

_To me._

"To me".

And time froze as she dropped it through the air towards her captives, the whites of their eyes widening and dripping with the tears of terror. The minute it hit the pile of squirming flesh the air was filed with eighteen painful screams as fire shot into the air, each body writhing helplessly as Ivory watched, a giddy smile spreading across her face. The greasy banker was the first to go, soaked in gasoline he went up like a fire cracker his co workers feeling the burning of their own soaked bodies and they wriggled in the flames. One of the girls was almost breaking her bonds and Ivory, fearing she would, pulled out her gun. She aimed, despite her amateur skills she supposed she was able to hit the girl. But that would make her special, why should she get a free pass?

Ivory watched as the girl almost broke free, but died as the pain of her body on fire eventually got to be too much for her, the smoke choking her lungs.

Two minutes passed and eventually the last body, the body of the mother of the four year old boy Ivory felt was lucky not to be home, stiffened and ceased.

". . . To me".

* * *

In the midst of the Gotham night a single flame was seen from all buildings in the Narrows and even beyond that, on a high building too far to properly see without squinting but not far enough to feel safe, a baptism of fire was occurring.

Many eye witnesses record seeing a girl, arms raised singing Bohemian Rhapsody, though shouting would have been more accurate. That she had looked like the devil, a demon of the night surrounded by screaming and music.

Ivory was dead, who she had been, who she was. And in the now lifeless burning carcases of her witnesses, who had been carefully strapped down and positioned, burned her new identity. A name Gotham would fear.

This was her first work of art.


	2. Chapter Two: Glorious Aftermath

Chapter Two: Glorious Aftermath

It was early morning, not that Bruce would have know. He sat in the depth of the Bat cave glued to the Bat monitor as he watched a live feed of the criminal Wayland Jones. A few weeks prior Bruce had managed to hack Arkham security after fears Killer Croc was receiving mutation drugs via some corrupted orderlies. Bruce, out of fear of an even more volatile Killer Croc was carrying out his own surveillance of his cell, watching every action the beast made and every interaction with staff. He had been sat there for a good few hours, another tab on the monitor showing the cell of The Calender Man, and another that of an unknown patient who had sliced the ear of a nurse a few weeks ago, he seemed harmless overall and had been arrested while dressed in a crazy get up, another new super villain wanna be. Ever since the Batman had surfaced three years ago these cooks had been appearing left right and centre, all trying to rival him with their rubber chickens and cheap one liners. It was getting out of hand, this had occurred to him when he came face to face with a man calling himself 'The Wombat King'.

Bruce smiled, bad villains were better than good ones. _Give me Wombat King over The Joker any day. _He mused, reminding himself of the separate monitor, smaller but positioned more forward than the others. The camera showed the cell of The Joker, a patient so dangerous that their now existed a maximum, maximum security ward at Arkham. His cell was small and Bruce cold make out the Jokers thin white form lying on the bed hands under his head, legs crossed with one in the air. Whistling.

_God damn him_. Was all Bruce could say, it was the whistling that pushed the dark knights buttons, that put him on edge. And that sick nightmare of a smile. Bruce was uneasy and was sure he had seen the clown prince wave at the camera at some point which made him even more irritated, but this was Joker, if Bruce wasn't suspicious of him then he didn't know the man. That is if you can call him a man. To Bruce he was a piece of-

"Master Bruce", Alfred interjected, he carried a tray with a silver serving dish covering it. He too looked at the monitors, glancing over the Jokers relaxed posture. "Your breakfast", Alfred paused, "Well, actually tea from last night-", he stopped, "Actually . . . lunch from yesterday. . . or perhaps yesterdays breakfast". Alfred just stopped there are laid in down near the monitor.

Bruce looked at his old friend tiredly, "I know Alfred, Its not your fault", Bruce lifted the tray to reveal French toast and warm Tea. For a moment he forgot his screen and drifted of to a place without Batman. "I should be eating more". Since Batman, food had been too much of a luxury, but Bruce promised himself he would enjoy this before retuning to the world of Jokers and Wombat Kings, where crocodiles pushed drugs and everybody and their mum had a shot at crime in a costume.

His luck. Just before he took a bite of toast a small alarm went off and Bruce made eye contact with Alfred immediately. Without saying a word Alfred covered the try, "Today's lunch, if you return Master Bruce, if not, . . Tea" The Butler watched as Bruce made his way to a glass case containing the Bat costume. "Its kind of you to spare me my trip to the supermarket master Bruce, we should go for a record of one a month perhaps".

But his comment fell on death ears as he watched the Bat mobile speed out of the cave leaving the butler alone with his thoughts and yet to be eaten meal.

* * *

Commissioner Gordon stood atop a tall council building surveying the Narrows. The morning shed light on the filth and graffiti of the surrounding neighbourhoods. He looked below seeing six or seven cop cars parked around the building, Bullock and Shelby were already rolling out the police tape, a few other officers doing their best to push back the rowdy mob of onlookers, demanding as if they had the right, to be told what was going on. Some filtered through, probably residents. Gordon felt bad that they actually lived in a place like this and wondered if they would continue when they finally were told what had occurred above their homes.

"Clear the area", The commissioner demanded. A young and unassuming officer from forensics looked surprised.

"But commissioner, we've barely started. All we've done is set the perimeter", he exclaimed. All Gordon could do was mumble. He had only been commissioner for a few months and in that time he had not once had someone just follow orders. Well that was about to change.

"I said clear the area, you can come back to it in a few minutes", Gordon demanded. And almost as he finished the forensic team dispensed down the metal stairs, stumbling over wreckage. All apart from one that is. "You, I said I wanted everybody out" Gordon stared down the young man who was slowly sealing an evidence bag.

"Commissioner I insist. Evidence deteriorates at an unbelievable rate. A crime scene left for an hour would already have lost %23 of its evidence. After three it begins to lose any follicles left behind by imprint. Leave it all night as this one was and less that %50 of the evidence to begin with has been dissolved. And considering that we had rain last night and that fire was involved-" He was cut off and cut down.

"When I say clear the area, I mean, C.L.E.A.R . . . T.H.E. . .A.R.E.A. I'm speaking English right?". The commissioner wasn't in the mood for some know-it-all uppity newbie. He knew the Batman wouldn't show up in broad daylight with so many people around, he only ever seemed to appear when Gordon was alone.

In his first year working for G.P.D, Gordon thought he was going mad, he saw the papers when he had first arrived in Gotham and thought nothing of it. When he started to show up at crime scenes Gordon had called backup, tried to arrest him. But now it was different. Now he knew this city needed a Batman, or at least someone free from the restraint of the law that pulled like a weight on Gordon.

"Its him isn't it" said the forensic investigator, "your waiting for him to show up, make off with the useful evidence and leave us with less that a fucking finger print".

Gordon said nothing but, "stand down", and the man dispersed finally. Gordon just waited. Waited for the one man who could make sense of crime, or bring sense with him. Gordon sometimes wondered how his life got like this, waiting on a roof top for a man dressed like a bat to explain how he should do his job.

* * *

Once the other man had left, the dark knight put down his binoculars. He was a few buildings away but could make the picture out clear as day. God bless Wayne tech. He shot out his grappling hook and made for the badly burned building..

* * *

"Your late", said Jim dryly.

The dark knight remained motionless, standing there like an ominous statue,"Traffic".

"Is that a joke?", the commissioner's frustration very real.

"What do we have", the batman got straight to the point, pulling a scanning device from his utility belt. He begun to scan the scene, all %12 left of it.

"Multiple homicide" Gordon begun, looking down at the batman as he moved swiftly like smoke around the burnt corpses. "identity's unknown due to the severity of the burns, motive also unknown and most probably non-existent. Witnesses say they heard screaming, a lot of it and saw the fire from a distance. We were called by the fire service once they discovered the dead bodies", Batman was silent as he worked, "We interviewed one or two of the residents below and they said this place had been empty for months. The roof collapsed and no one knew about it, could have been broken into by anybody". Silence again, "One eye witness says he saw the figure of a woman um . . dancing".

The Batman stood straight, watching his screen. Eventually it beeped and an image of a finger print surfaced.

"Anything useful", Gordon felt left out of the loop by the vigilante sometimes.

"A little" the caped crusader indicated to the screen.

_Identification: Unknown_

_Duration: 6 hours_

_External element: Gasoline, plastic, rope fibre, sugar, glucose syrup, still processing . . . . _

Eventually the scanner picked up the last foreign element and Batman watched the screen unamused.

"What was it?" Gordon inquired. Bateman's expression unmoving and unreadable.

" . . . . . coco bean", he said plainly.

"So our suspect was eating chocolate before they did this?" Gordon felt this information was irrelevant.

"Actually afterwards. Our suspect stayed here for a while after the crime was committed. Something tells me if you look for the wrapper you may find more prints. You could compare them with the G.P.D database. However if they took it with them-"

"then we're back to square one", Gordon finished his senescence.

"No exactly", Batman motioned again to the scanner. "See that?". Gordon leaned it. The screen showed a variation of scanned images of the scene. And before his very eyes they begun to shift, changing perspective until what was left was one image, birds eye view.

"Jesus", was all that escaped his mouth. The picture showed the bodies from above. Making what looked like random positioning look precise. They were set out to spell something.

'ARTIST'

Gordon glanced down into the top apartment, from here it just looked like a sprawl of bodies, but from high up it was pristine. "What do you suppose that means? . . . . . Batman?". The commissioner turned round but the dark knight was gone.

Soon Bullocks face appeared from over the horizon of the stairs, "you finished your secret club meeting?, I'd just really like to let our boys do their job without that freak getting all the credit". Gordon ignored him.

"Get me a chopper", he ran to the stairs, returning a second later, "and a camera. And look for a chocolate wrapper". And with that Gordon was gone.

He left Bullock standing in the middle of the now %11 of evidence. The young forensic investigator infuriated to discover a chocolate wrapper had been littered on the scene, slapped it into Bullocks chest.

"Hey man keep this place clean, you wanna go eat a doughnut or something keep it outta my crime scene".

Batman was already heading back to Wayne Manner. _Artist._ What did that mean. Was it a calling card?, a warning?. Who knows. The dark knight felt uneasy, a feeling he had only ever got when around a certain insane clown. He could feel it, whatever it was. Something was about to happen, something bad.

* * *

Speaking of bad things, The Joker still lay in his cell whistling, unaware he had lost a small amount of his lime light to another.

In the depths of Arkham, below ground, below that and then a little further, as if Warden Sharpe was trying to make the devils journey to collect them shorter. Was maximum security. A dust mite couldn't cough without raising an alarm. Through a six inch Iron door with more lock codes than could be conceived was the Jokers personalised prison.

Through the door was a small room with three guards, always three, never one, never two, always three. Or more. Most of the guards would have agreed that more was better but Arkham as of late had been seriously under funded. The area had a table, a few seats and a small television in the corner fixed to the wall. A computer and security operated surveillance station which occupied the west wall, giving eyes and ears to not only the whole facility underground but the Jokers cell. Which was right next door.

Through an heavy door, who's only connection from one side to another was a thick bullet proof 12 inches wide sheet of glass, was the Jokers cell. A small room, padded walls, a bed. Fixed to the floor of course. A toilet and sink also fixed to the floor and nothing except for the clown prince of crime himself.

He lay there still whistling, staring at the ceiling, glad to be free from his close friend the straight jacket. He smiled, as he always did, sometimes giggling to himself, his head swimming with sickeningly humorous ideas and plans. He sensed movement outside his cell as the guards changed, a new three taking over for the day shift.

The night before the Joker had bitten the finger off one, he had been opening his cell to hand him his Tea and the Joker had gone for him, ripping it off at the base and snapping though the bone with the pressure of his jaw. Joker chuckled lowly, his laughing heightening as he glanced at the red stains that now dried brown at the base of the cell door.

"HahEhaHahahaHAh", he smirked amused. Why hide his mirth? He laughed louder and longer. He was cut short by one of the guards.

"SHUT UP YOU PIECE OF SHT", Jokers head snapped angrily to the door. He glared at the pig looking in at him, and in his head devised eighteen different plans to cause him as much pain and humiliation as possible. But while mulling over option seven which involved him somehow gaining the trust of a Siberian Tiger, Jokers cell door swung open. The guard standing there like a hulk of protein shakes.

"Sorry darling, didn't know you'd be home so early. Kids aren't in bed and I haven't even started dinner", Joker threw his arms up in mock panic, grinning as the man's frown deepened. He took another step into the cell and would have taken one more if not for another guards hand landing on his shoulder.

"Forget it man, he's not worth it. Crazy fucker'll spring some shit on you too if you let em". Joker nodded slowly, not breaking eye contact with the larger man. His smile widened even more, it reached his ears almost.

To the Joker his smile was his crowning jewel, it made him, him. It was bizarre, large gashes along each side to ensure his grin never ceased, made worse by his fall into chemicals which had entered the wound, bleaching it and his lips a dark red. His hair un-styled due to his current predicament and was equally wild, sticking up in all directions yet pointing backwards mostly. It s dark green tinge similar to that of the burning waste he had fallen into. His eyes unnaturally bright green and reddened around the edges, contrasting with the natural dark rings which surrounded them reaching up to his eyebrows. His skin was ghostly. It was beyond pale, more chalk white. His appearance scared many, but not this guard.

He was either very stupid . . . or very stupid.

The guard cracked his knuckles, "So you like breaking fingers freak", he cracked his neck too on each side. The other guard pleaded with him still, but also glared at the Joker who he was disgusted by also. Babysitting Joker was the job nobody wanted.

"I like breaking everything my deluded comrade, read my file. Its thrilling if I do say so myself. But personally I recommend you finish 'The Very Hungry Caterpillar' first, just so you get the hang of sounding out words, haHeHeOOooOEHa-" Joker was pulled by the collar of his orange jumpsuit and lifted violently, "Or 'Spot And The Red Ball', I'm not generalising-OUFF"

Joker hit the opposite end of the cell with such force his laughter stopped but only for a moment, soon it was like a hyena , mad and uncontrollable. "HeHa- see spot ruNHahah", the man came towards him with such ferocity but Joker, like a cheetah moved swiftly to the side. The man collided with the wall. He was no smartie for sure.

"NoOhh Spot A- HahHa Car" Joker continued, unable to contain himself. Why was entertainment so hard to come by these days, "No spot, No". The man came back to his senses and lunged for the Joker again, in the area of his bed, "Sorry children ahhe, Spots dead- ahHaahHhaHAHAH". He moved again, the man's nose hit the bar of the bed and begun to bleed. "Oh well we can always get a cat". Joker glared at the other guard, pulling the tazer from the larger man's belt. The bulky guards collision with the bed has left him barley conscious and he hardly noticed.

Before the scared guard could move Joker was on him pushing the tazer into his face. "say cheese", and with that he turned it up as high as he could get it, pushing it into the man's head as he spasmed. Joker heard the larger man coming too and quickly removed the tazer from the other guards face, swung round and did the same to the other, holding it for longer, watching as blood flowed from his ears. He was getting quite the collection of stains lately.

At this point you may be asking yourself where the other guard is. He's gone to the toilet.

Joker, pulled it away finally, admiring his work. The larger man was dead for sure, but as for the first he didn't know. Joker leaned down with the tazer and jabbed him in the chest, once, twice, thrice. He giggled and giddily laughed as joints had seizures and eyes rolled back. But soon it lost its fun and he sat in the corner of his cell, flipping the tazer on and off, on and off, watching the electrical buzz like a fly with a lantern.

It was then he noticed his door was open. And the Jokers smile reached new limits. He stood with the tazer and poked his head outside. "Yooouu hoo, Sharpie. Deadly patient out of his cell". Nothing. "Arkham couldn't stop a tortoise from escaping" he said lowly and unamused. Unamused he only had two guards to play with. He looked around this new room, at the surveillance, watching the pictures of the two dead guards lying on the floor of his cell. He then looked up to the small television which was currently tuned into G.M.G, Good Morning Gotham.

"_And that's why Frank Davis has vowed never to don the cape of the Wombat King ever again . . . Back to you Howard"_

"_Thanks Mark. In other news a local disturbance on Corero street on the Marshall housing estate has caused quit a stir this morning. _

It cut to footage of a reporter on the ground, the scene behind her a mob of people all looking on as bodies were being wheeled out one by one.

"_This is Vikki Vale, reporting for Good Morning Gotham. In the early hours of this morning, a number of calls were placed to Gotham fire department, reporting a blaze at the Marshal housing district. Fire fighters were horrified to find the charred remains of eighteen bodies, all unidentified at present. It is believed that the blaze started late last night and was only extinguished when hoses were used to control the flames"_

It cut back to the studio.

"_Vikki,what does the new commissioner have to say about this?"_

It cut back to the woman.

"_I don't know – wait, look there he is" _The woman ran and the camera jogged up and down as it followed. _"Commissioner Gordon what's happening up there?, is it true the Joker it to blame?. Sources say he's locked up in Arkham, what do you say about that?" _The commissioner however barged past her, "_No comment". _The woman though now embarrassed looked at the camera and smiled awkwardly. It then cut to footage shot from a helicopter, the male news reporter talking over it.

"_This was footage shot before officers begun to remove the bodies. They were positioned to spell 'ARTIST', some calling this the move of a new criminal or an act of revenge carried out by a rival gang, whatever the cause you can share your opinion with us as we debate this story tonight on my talk show 'Time With Howard King', call in on 2463-"_

* * *

The voice of the news reporter trailed off for Joker as he watched the footage, the uniquely placed bodies, the extreme concept, the . . the audacity. He felt his blood boil. Someone was stealing his M.O.

The third guard retuned from the toilet and was horrified at the scene he discovered. But not for long as the minute he entered the room Joker shoved the tazer in his face and proceeded to kill him in much the same way as the other two, but this time his laughter was more wicked. He imagined that this poor bastard was the one who had stolen his style, the guy who had performed so perfectly on Gothams stage, so much so to almost out shine him, the Joker. Joker swore he would find them, he, she, it. Whatever. Make them suffer. Joker thought himself practically a trademark, copyrighted. And by God would he sue their ass off. Clown style.

He stripped one of the guards, putting on his uniform. Not for disguise, for dress up mostly. However it was baggy and short and its amusement quickly faded. He swiped all three guns and a security pass. But just as he was about to make his get away he looked back. "Aww fellas don't look at me like that", He chuckled as he re-entered the room to create HIS piece of art. If 'ARTIST' wanted a war, then 'ARTIST' fucking had one coming.

* * *

At this point I'm not sure if I'm going for a Joker and Artist pairing or a rivalry. I haven't really thought about this much as you can probably tell. Pinky promise to update (I don't pinky promise -_-)


	3. Chapter Three: Half Way Into The Dark

Chapter Three: Half Way Into The Dark

Ivory stirred in her sleep, it was already 10:30 but she didn't want to get up. She reached her arms above her head and stretched, arching her back. She snuggled back into her duvet and rolled over. She faced a large poster on her wall, where her bed was pushed up. She smiled, "Morning " she giggled as she stroked the face of her favourite band member with a single finger. Avenged Sevenfold had been her favourite musicians since, well since she heard them when she was thirteen. She felt the cold air on her arm and pulled her black duvet over her head to create a cocoon of warmth (we all do it, even murderers). She closed her eyes and contemplated. Had it been real or a dream, she hoped it was real. She had tried so hard, got so far. If it wasn't real she'd just lose it. Not that she hadn't already.

As she lay there she smiled, excited. It had been real. It had meant something. It was one of only a few strong decisions that she ever had made. She still felt like she was coming down from her high. Now too hot under the covers she threw them off partially, her pale skin contrasting with the black of her bed sheets. Her form was slender and beautiful, like some kind of snow goddess. Her hair was white, pure white. She was Albino, but that gave her appearance a mysterious and alluring look. Her pale skin and white hair extenuated her eyes which were an uncommonly dark shade of blue. It was as if the universe was residing in her orbs. Her lips were small and pale and she looked like a porcelain doll, or would do if she didn't hold herself so oddly. She had a disposition which was cooky and unladylike. She wore to bed an oversized David Bowie T-shirt, and for some reason one shoe which she had forgotten to remove from the previous night. Somehow.

Just then a thought crept into her head. _Maybe I made the news. _

She leapt out of bed and ran out of her room. She charged through her apartment like white lightning until she was sat cross legged in front of her television. She thumbed the on button and BAM!, there it was. Her work. They were showing footage of her art work. No doubt it would be all over the internet and the news for a couple of days. She could not contain herself, she squirmed with Joy, "Wooopie", she pronounced running into her kitchen and grabbing a bottle of champagne form the fridge. She grabbed a glass and again was on her feet, this time skipping. She came to a door which she pulled open to reveal her studio. A vast room with a large skylight. It was covered in painted canvases and all her collections. She ran up a set of winding stairs which lead up to a mezzanine area where she kept all her blank canvases. Pouring herself some champagne and some fresh paint she set about her work.

Excited, nervous, unstable and creative.

It was night when she had finished, her face and arms were covered in oil paint, she stood back, hand over her mouth as she smiled excitedly. This was it, this was who she would be.

On the canvas was a self portrait of sorts. It showed a woman with long flowing white hair. He body was covered in a black body suit, over this a tight white shirt which buttoned up all the way to the neck, an equally tight fitting navy waist coat and black bow tie. She had a black jacket, again form fitting, but with tails which trailed down the back of her legs in the same fashion that the bottom of her navy waistcoat did. The jacket was longer than it needed to be and went all the way to her mid fingers, a hole pocked through the sleeve for the thumb. Her legs were bare, her exposed pale flesh on display for all, her legs endless as they trailed up to the bottom of the body suit. A few inches below her knee begun her black boots, slender to match her legs until they reached her feet where they became chunky. Navy tinted buckles going from top to bottom, Goth boots. The figure was perfect, but the face made Ivory's heart jump. A Porcelain doll mask. White skin, black lined closed eyes, red lips, black contoured cheeks and a large crack across the left eye.

She stood back, she had chills. She finally sipped her champagne and toasted her creation. The Artist. She would be beauty and chaos. She would be destruction meets creation. All that night she filled her head with what she would become. Perhaps they were the deluded thought of another wannabe costume criminal. But then again, perhaps not.

She picked up a thin remote and pressed a button to turn on her speakers. And as 'A Little Piece Of Heaven' begun to play, Ivory did what all lazy young adults do when board, surf the internet. And Ivory found just what she was looking for.

_And I will take what's mine, create what God would never design . . . . _

* * *

Batman crouched on a gargoyle of Arkham Asylum for the criminally insane. It was dark now, his form hidden in the night. The city cloaking him, protecting its protector. He watched as Gordon's men dispersed into their cars and left after already analysing the crime scene. They would no doubt not be returning, his suspicions confirmed when he saw forensics climb into their van and depart down the long winding road away from the mad house. They were the same team from Marshal. Batman felt bad at what they had seen today and all the work which would no doubt keep them from their families for the next few days.

Batman had been following new leads all day, he'd managed to learn the identities of most of the victims, but had not been able to establish any links, it was if they were just randomly chosen, which wasn't as unlikely as it might seem. He had also followed up on the concept of the 'ARTIST'. And again, nothing. He had scanned the finger prints through all known databases and again, nothing. No CCTV, no previous crimes of similarity, no nothing. Everything lead to a dead end.

Which lead Batman to conclude that somebody climbed up onto that roof, kidnapped those people and murdered them to leave that grotesque message, and did so willingly and that it was their first crime, done by someone who until today had been innocent.

Batman shuddered, _Jesus_.What Monster is capable of such an act, and if this is the first crime they commit, God help us if theirs a second.

The coast looked clear enough and Batman descended, falling through the air and landing on the ground like a dark supernatural entity. He moved fast into the Arkham halls via a window. He found Gordon in the front office of the Asylum a look of dread, disappointment and fear.

"You called" The Batman stated.

"I did" Gordon replied, his voice void of all cheer

"Has he-"

"Yes" Gordon cut him off, his voice now merging with his dread, laced with an anger only a man forced to behold atrocities on a day to day basis can create.

Batman nodded and begun to leave. "Wait" said Gordon, "He left something you might want to see. Given the nature of today's discovery this may be important. Or not, I just don't know really". Gordon lead the way trough the Arkham catacombs, through to the lowest past of the building where a large loading elevator was ready. To take them down into the ground, closer to hell and the Jokers latests 'Joke'

Gordon and Batman stood at the door which had been taped off, "just tear through-". Batman ripped past the tape ignoring Gordon, "Like I said, just tear through".

"I warn you this is pretty sick even for him, I don't know how he did it but . . , Actually I'd like to stay here Batman", the dark knight eyed the commissioner, "I want to go home to my wife with at least a little sanity today. God, I mean. . . ".

"No", said Batman, "Your right. Go home to your wife Jim, I'll see myself out". Both men looked at one another and mutual respect was evident, Gordon nodded his head and left, hopefully back home where he could sleep in the same bed as his wife without waking her with his nightmares.

Batman walked into a small room, observed the surveillance station. The screens were dark and murky as if something had been smeared on them, it was impossible to see into the cell this way, he would have to go it. However apart form the monitors nothing seemed out of the ordinary, that was until he noticed the table and chairs in the room were missing. He could see the marks of where they should have been on the floor, lighter than the rest of the grey plastic flooring. . He turned to the Jokers cell and pushed the door open and hell suddenly felt very real.

* * *

Jim Gordon was driving down the winding road away from Arkham, faster than need be. He was running subconsciously. Running from what was in that room. All he wanted was to get home fast and pretend he was a normal guy with a normal job, who saw normal things. Tell his wife that today was a good day at the office and all he's been doing was paper work. Yeah, that what he'd tell her. That's what he always tells her.

Gordon passed the sign that let him know he was half way, half way out of the dark

_CAUTION: HITCHHICKERS MAY BE ESCAPING PATIENTS _

* * *

Batman stood at the edge of the cell, he dare not walk in, he didn't want to, didn't need to. Joker was a sick man, this was obvious. But this was beyond evil, it was demented.

The white of the padded cell was gone forever, every inch was soaked in blood, painted in thick layers. The table had been placed in the centre of the room the three chairs around it. On these chairs were the three murderd guards, skinned alive. Batman thought he'd be sick. Looking closely they had been positioned to look like they were playing cards. All the cards were Jokers. He turned and slammed the door behind him putting one hand on the wall for support as he held back vomit.

The sick sculpture was impossible to wipe from memory, Batman wished Gordon good luck sleeping. Despite the door being shut it was still there, still close. That's when Batman noticed it, the small television in the corner had something written on it in blood. He got closer and scanned it, taking a picture. It read simply:

_Copyright Joker_

The detective understood the mad man's intentions. It was not Joker who had committed the homicide, given that he had been incarcerated at the time. This message worried the Bat.

What was he getting at?, if he was trying to prove he could be just as sick then mission accomplished. Batman knew the Joker had a big ego, perhaps he learned of the events in the Narrows and felt the need for validation. To prove he was still top dog. Batman felt the danger of an upstaged Joker and decided to turn his efforts to apprehending the clown. Now that Joker was loose, he would no doubt be seeking out the Artist. Batman knew Joker was intelligent, maybe more so that he when it came to criminal matters such as this.

Find the Joker, and you find the artist.

Once outside the Asylum Batman made for the Bat-mobile, switching on the coms unit as he too sped away down Arkham's winding trail. "Alfred".

"Yes Master Bruce?", Alfred's voice faint and distorted slightly.

"I need you to open the files on Arkham security and run a few background checks. I need to know who was watching Joker and if there was any motive for their murder beyond the obvious" Bruce stopped

"Obvious sir?", Alfred inquired.

"Jokers never needed a motive before, he just kills who ever he can, randomly. I'm just following all possible trails". The dark knight explained. "Its vital I find him before he kills again, he and the Artist both loose on Gotham is something I can't allow. People will die Alfred, a lot of people".

"Of course sir", Alfred paused, "Sir the CCTV of Jokers cell, it appears to be-"

"I know Alfred", Bruce cut in.

"May I ask why-"

"Not if you want to sleep", with that Bruce cut communications. He knew he had to watch the footage of Jokers latest murder. He just felt relived that Alfred hadn't been in the Batcave while it occurred. He couldn't imagine what that would have done to the butler to bare witness to such a horrific act. He would remember to switch the Arkham CCTV off when he returned, and keep it off. Killer Croc could have a free pass while Batman tackled much bigger fish. The Batmobile finally reached the edge of Arkham island, heading across the towering metal bridge towards the city.

_Somewhere out there, but where?_

* * *

Ivory climbed into bed after her shower, now dry and throwing her towel off. It had been a long day. Tomorrow she had an exhibition at the Gotham Wayne Gallery. Her work would be up for auction as it had been before and she always enjoyed watching people act so desperately to posses something they themselves were incapable of creating. Everyone knew her name. Ivory White, everyone in Gothams art world knew who she was and envied her ability. Famous for her oil paintings of violent scenes, fights and demons. The darkness was where she drew inspiration.

She smiled. No one would make the connection. They don't posses that sort of understanding. No one did, no one understood her urges to create. Even if they lead her to use horrific and unorthodox means. The Artist would help her become more than Ivory White. She filled her head with these enjoyable thoughts as she drifted off.

She herself would be a work of Art.


	4. Chapter Four: SLASH, CLUNK

Just a heads up, got pretty carried away with the violence and this may be a little more twisted than it should have been, but then again this is the Joker. If you don't like it I'm sure Winnie the poo has a vast fanfiction community. (So be gone with you).

* * *

Chapter Four: SLASH, CLUNK

Joker sat, crouched on a beam of the warehouse ceiling looking down. Obscured by shadows only his green hair and blood red smile peaked out from the darkness. He still wore the guards uniform, clutching one of the guns in his left hand, his trigger finger inching insanely. His right hand was resting on the wall as he remained out of sight, pressed against it. He giggled when a thought occurred to him. _This is how Batsy hides. _A small laugh escaped him and he quickly silenced it much to his displeasure. He grinned as he pictured himself in an all purple bat suit, crooked green batarangs and his own utility belt filled with goodies. Again he stifled his giggling.

He had escaped shortly after his play time with the guards. He smiled. He was still congratulating himself for his sheer genius. _Tracy Emin's eat your heart out._ He shifted uncomfortably. The uniform was soaked with blood which had dried forming crusts on the sleeves and legs. The hat was still pretty clean. Joker had seen his reflection in a puddle outside, before sneaking into the warehouse. He had looked horrifying, his face covered in blood splatters, few white patches of skin left showing. The same went for his arms, the sleeves of the shirt had been rolled up, blood staining both them and his arms, drying awkwardly in the creases. The blue of the uniform was no more, its original colour only given away by the hat which Joker had taken of while 'sculpting'. Underneath his hair wasn't any better, dark green springing from gaps were blood wasn't.

He shifted weight onto his other foot.

Joker's grin partially faded as he pondered weather or not his little trick would make the news like Artists had. He hoped it would, he did so love to see his name in the papers. He also wanted Artist to see it, to know he has escaped and was coming for him. When he got his hands on the guy he, Joker would make his next sculpture and all Gotham would see. There can only be one master of chaos. Him.

He shifted weight again. _How does Batsy do this._ His impatience showing.

It then occurred to him that Arkham had a history of covering things up. He did his best to frown as much as he could. If they did then there would be no warning. Artist would not know he was coming. He was a sucker for drama and this wouldn't do. It just wouldn't. He then again smiled as another idea crept into his head. A wonderfully monstrous idea. Another sculpture, better than before, bigger than before. This idea spiralled out of control like a spider weaving a frantic web.

_Eighteen was the number he used, eighteen. I can do better than that, I'll use nineteen, no twenty. No, what's eighteen times two, thirty six. Yeah thirty six. But why thirty six when I could use fifty, no wait . . a hundred. _He Squeed. _A hundred, a hundred, a hundred. Hehahahehahha. Batsy will scold me but hey, it'll send the message._

Joker held in his laugh, it was painful to him mentally and physically it pushed on his scars, but he smiled still. Excited and erratic as he stared down at his soon be to victims.

He was in a large meat storage house, hooks hanging from the ceiling. A meat grinder in the corner. He smiled as so many twisted ideas flooded his head, his mind swimming with new concepts and scenarios in which he could use everything around him. He could no longer stifle his laugh it erupted, but he tried to control the explosion as much as he could so not to give himself away. He put his hand to his mouth and even held his breath. But laughter has a life of its own.

Below on the warehouse floor stood three men. One was leaning against a pillar smoking. He took long drags,the mark of a stressful job. He had a black wool cap and bulky brown coat, worn fingerless gloves and bulky brown boots coated in grime. He puffed fast and hard, his unshaven and dishevelled appearance even more unappealing as he frowned constantly.

"Bob, you gonna give me a hand or what?", a second man yelled from a few feet away. The second man was wearing a long white plastic coat, blue hair net in which a small ponytail was concealed and long blue plastic gloves. He swung a large machete like knife down into a large cut of meat. The sound of the breaking bones echoing across the warehouse.

"I'm on my break", the man bellowed back between drags, "they don't pay us for over time anyway". He again sucked his cigarette. The second man scoffed, again bringing the knife into the meat exactly nine inches away from the first slice. He clearly didn't value this job any more than the other guy. His motions showed stress also, each meeting of the knife to the meat one of frustration.

A third man emerged from another part of the building, carrying a skinned cows leg. He carried it over shoulder and slammed it onto the table next to the the one the second man was hacking away at. "Picturing you wife there Frank" the new man joked. The second glared at him but then smiled, "Ex-wife". The new man left to fetch another load leaving Frank and Bob alone again. Well, alone with the psychopath they were still unaware was watching them.

After a few more slams of the knife, Joker thought it would be polite to introduce himself. But as he begun to leave his hiding place, he heard something that caught him of guard.

"So you seen the news about this Artist guy?" Bob inquired, dropping his cigarette and stamping it out.

Frank stopped working and shifted nervously, "Yeah, pretty sick stuff, my old man lives in the narrows, was talking about moving cause he can see the building from his place". He begun to lift the meat off the table, throwing it into a plastic container,

"Too many freaks running round that's the problem, too many nut balls not being put down like they should be, you know", he begun to remove his jacket and hat, replacing them with the same blue plastic gloves and white coat. "All's I'm saying is that in the ol' days if someone did wrong you put a bullet in them. Now its all padded cells and free food". He selected a knife from the tools on the wall and begun hacking at the other meat joint. "I wouldn't mind being let in a room with one of 'em.", Motioning with his knife, " Teach them a thing or two about messing with good, hard working honest people. Teach them a lesson they wouldn't soon forget".

He reached out ready to again cut the meat when a white blood splattered hand grabbed his wrist. Before Bob could register he felt a sharp and sudden pain as his wrist was broken, the hand twisted it fast and hard. He yelped pitifully, for a man of his stature, dropping his knife without thinking. The Joker picked it up and smashed Bob in the head with the end of the gun knocking him out cold.

Frank who was too scared to move, just stared at the Joker, his horrifying appearance, more so that usual paralysing him with fear. The Joker turned to him and smiled. That was enough to snap Frank out of it. He bolted for the door on the other end of the warehouse. Joker just stood there, glancing at the knife the other had dropped.

Frank felt fear fuel his non-athletic body with instinctual energy as he sprinted for the door. It felt so far away and he waited to hear a gun shot, or worse, the sound of the maniac perusing him. He would no doubt be faster and catch him with ease. He found it hard to distract from the monstrous face which had smiled at him, the blood stained skin that creased round his mouth as he did so. Frank was finally a few metres away from the door, and as he reached out he felt a burning pain in this lower neck. He felt a sharp object pierce and enter him. The invader was enough to knock him to the floor and he hit it with force. He panicked and his brain told him to get up, but his body wasn't responding. He couldn't feel his body.

Joker watched as the knife sank into the man from a distance, seeing him fall to the floor as a wide grin appeared on his lips. He wasn't dead, that much was sure, but like the other he wasn't going anywhere.

Joker looked around, hearing the door at the opposite end open, the third man stopping immediately when he saw Joker, his appearance striking fear into this one also. The Joker fired, the bullet travelling through the leg of meat the man way carrying and into him. The meat slowed the bullet, but not enough. It ripped though the man's abdomen and sent him backwards. He croaked and screamed a little, but eventually the small whimpers died down, the man's life slipped away from him.

* * *

Joker chuckled, it seemed the best things came in threes. It was as if fate was giving him another go at creating his sculpture again, this time outside the deceptive interior of Arkham. He didn't believe in fate, but he did believe in luck. He also believed in stretching limits. _A hundred huh, well three down, 97 to go._

When Bob awoke he felt s dull throbbing pain in his head, rivalled by the sharp aching of his broken wrist. The pain unnecessarily increasing as he attempted to move, his hands tied at the wrists, digging into the flesh of his arms. Every time he pulled it caused him great discomfort, his wrist limp and in agony. He looked around, he was still in the warehouse, he tried to get up but rope also bound his feet to the bottom of the chair in which he was incapacitated.

His vision was blurry and he tried hard to remember what had happened and it eventually all came back to him. The white hand, the hit to the head and Frank running. _Son a bitch_ is all he thought, _Leavin' me with that guy. _As all he could do was turn his head, he did so, his vision finally adjusting. He turned to the left and saw that another chair was positioned behind him, Frank slumped into it lazily. Unbound

"Hey", Bob whispered, eliciting no response. He tried a second time, "Hey man, you even awake?". Bob, now very desperate to learn the nature of his predicament raised his voice, "Frank". Still no reply. From Frank. Instead what Bob heard was the crooked melodic tone that was famous in Gotham for being the last thing most people ever heard. Before meeting a very sticky end.

"Well, finally you decided to join the party", he looked up and saw the Joker in front of him. He was standing behind the meat table with a knife, the same he'd been using not moments before.

He was dressed in one of the long white plastic coats, a pair of the blue gloves and a hair net. Underneath the net Bob could make out the dark blood tinted green of his hair. His face was as it had been before painted red with blood. Bob knew it wasn't from the meat, but he tried not to think about that. This was the Joker, he knew he wouldn't survive this and involuntarily begun to hyperventilate, shaking and sweating as his fate seemed ever more concrete.

"Darling its rude to stare", came the melodic tone once again as Joker reached out and cut some meat which was laid out on the table, more crimson spurted into his face as he did so. "You'll forgive me, I do so love to play dress up, and being a guard _was_ fun, but this looked so much more. .", he paused as he looked at the knife, throwing it up into the air and catching it at the point of the blade with his fingertips, "invigorating". He continued to cut he meat, blood pouring out in tiny drops.

Bob's hyperventilating quickened as his body begun to shiver intensely. Joker stared at him and cocked his head smiling, "I mean, I'd never quit my day job for it, oh no. But this work is fun when you get into it", another slash at the meat, "All it needs is some guy dressed like a bat to pop in every so often and wreck the place and it'd be perfect". An extra hard slash, followed by a crack. Jokers knife was stuck.

He frowned and attempted to pull it out with a displeasing result. He ignored Bob as he put one leg up onto the table and pushed with it as he pulled at the knife again. The knife came free and in the process spurted red over Joker. The wide spray saw to it that a few drops landed on Bob too, he shuddered away as if he could escape their fall but he was incapacitated. It then occurred to him he was in nothing but his boxers. He shivered as he noticed the cold. He turned to Frank, who was still completely out of it, but completely in his cloths. Joker noticed Bobs expression and interjected.

"I said I wanted to play dress up, but you naughty kiddies didn't leave me anything so I had to make do with yours". Another whack at the meat. "I mean rude or what. Well I guess its my fault for dropping in uninvited. Literally". Another hard whack. Joker giggled to himself as he was caught up in the swings.

Bob again turned to Frank, who was still slumped. "Wha-t-t . ." was all Bob could muster, and as he did, the clowns ears perked up.

"'What', what? My dear", he mocked.

SLASH.

"Wh-what . . d-do-", Bob cursed himself as his words refused to leave his mouth in an unbroken stream. Joker leapt over the cutting table and then onto Bobs lap. He crossed his legs and with his right hand grabbed Bobs jaw and with the other cupped it around his ear.

"Your gonna have to speak up pumpkin, daddy's a little hard of hearing", Joker forcefully pulled at Bobs face, his victims horror portrayed in his eyes as the Jokers bloody face leaned in closer looking expectant. Bob was too petrified to answer and stared at Joker looking as if he'd die of fright right there and then. Joker wanting to get back to his meat chopping, pulled hard on the man's jaw.

"WHAT?", Jokers raised voice just made it worse, Bob now frozen in terror. Joker noticed this and glee ran through him and a smile appeared once again on his lips, "ENGLISH MOTHER FUCKER, DO YOU SPEAK IT?". Joker shouted in the frightened man's face. Hoping the guy had seen Pulp Fiction, otherwise he might think that Joker was easily angered. Which he wasn't, he had a reputation he thought worth upholding.

Bob finally spat it out, his brain registering the danger at last. "What do you want from us". With that Joker got off Bobs lap and leapt back to his position at the table. He stroked the knife, grinning as he looked at Bob.

"Bob, Bob, Bobbity, Bob", Joker paced, "Weren't you the one who said you'd love to be _let in a room with one of 'em._", Joker motioned to Bob with his knife, " _Teach them a thing or two about messing with good, hard working honest people. Teach them a lesson they wouldn't soon forget". _Joker smiled as he recanted Bobs words, mimicking his voice. His smiled extenuated as he saw dread enter Bobs expression.

"I-I-I-", he started to cry a little, not caring how it looked. He knew he was going to die and he felt real fear for the first time in his life.

"You wished for me, and here I am", Joker laughed and took a bow. "But alas I am not here for you, well, not here for revenge at least. No no no, I'm here for something much more meaningful".

SLASH

Joker begun again cutting the meat. "I'm here because I need you Bob, and Frank, and whoever the other guy is".

SLASH

"I'm out to prove a point you see, that I'm still top dog, you see?"

SLASH

"And that begins here".

Bob found some composure, "Please I'll do whatever yo-" Bob was cut off by the noise of the cutting, the knife going so far through the meat it hit the table.

SLASH, CLUNK

SLASH, CLUNK

SLASH, CLUNK

The Joker laughed in a frenzy as he cut the meat. It was only then that Bob's mind cleared enough for him to remember that the meant wasn't supposed to bleed like that.

"What was his name by the way?" Joker asked, "_Was,_ being the key word . . .". Jokers smile darkened into something more carnivorous. Something beyond the evil he had carried out so far that night.

Realisation hit Bob like a freight train and he felt his stomach twist.

SLASH, CLUNK

"Well, whoever he was, doesn't matter now". Jokers voice sank low and became ominous, "He's just meat now".

SLASH, SLASH, SLASH, CLUNK!

"Were all just meat". He hissed like Hannibal Lecter.

Bob threw up, sick in both feeling and being. He felt the blood that had spurted on him run down his face, the knowledge of where it had come from causing him to again throw up until nothing was left inside him for him to expel.

Joker returned to his demoniacally chirpy self, "Cheer up Bob, we're all food for something. Its nature you know". This city is so full of bottom feeders you've forgotten your true selves".

SLASH, CLUNK

"Forgotten that underneath that lovely human skin lies a wolf, with the urge to rip apart all around him and feed on the weak".

SALSH, CLUNK

"And that's what happens Bob ol' pal. The weak die first".

SLASH, CLUNK

Joker had finally finished. Standing back to admire his work. He collected one of the plastic box's and begun to place the meat inside it carefully, so not to damage what he had done. He kicked the box across the floor away for him in direct contradiction of that care and turned back to the table.

"Now whose next?", Joker licked his lips and eyed Bob, who felt as if his lungs would give out if his breathing became any more wild. Joker stalked up to him and rested the knife on Bobs cheek, drawing a small smile with the blood, "Shhhh Shhh Shhhh Shhhhhhhh", he leant down to eye hight, resting his hands on his knees as he stared at the pathetic little man. "Now who should I take next? Hmmn, you or Frankie boy here?". Bob cried out.

"Please don't kill me please, I have a family, my son only just s-s-started school, p-please you can't d-d-d-do this". The man wept and sobbed and Joker smiled. He pointed the knife at Bobs chest.

"And what about Frankie hmmn, no family. I guess that ex-wife of his wouldn't miss him much". Joker mock reasoned. He wanted Bob to sell Frankie out, to shed his human skin and show the wolf within him, begging to survive to prolong his miserable little joke of a life.

" . . . n-n-n-o, she wouldn't", Bob said, practically handing his friend over to Joker. He knew he'd be next, that he would die as well anyway. But the instinct to survive kicked in and he found himself agreeing with Joker. He bit his lip hard, hating himself, detested by what he had done to his friend.

"Very well then. We'll don it like injections, he can go first to show you its not so bad". Joker walked round behind Bob to where Frankie lay slumped. Joker scooped up the man's feet and with a thud pulled him off the chair and begun to drag him towards the table. Bob noticed that though unbound, Frankie had been gagged and blindfolded. "Oh that?" Joker grinned, "He woke up before you did, yeah this one's a fighter I can tell you. Not like you, you were out for an hour. I mean come on Bob, ain't you got no spunk like Frankie here", Joker begun to haul the man up onto the table. Bob was surprised Joker was able to do so as his frame looked too skinny to carry such weight. Once Frankie lay motionless on the table Joker rested on its edge with his knuckles. "Told him exactly what I told you of course. Even gave him the same choice of who should go next. He did the same, sold you out too Bobby".

Joker picked up his knife again, "I was wrong Bob, you and Frankie aren't wolves. Your maggots". Joker removed the blindfold, revealing Franks eyes, wide open and filled with panic. His eyebrows twitched and lips attempting to move, but the gag prevented them. He had been awake all this time, paralysed.

"No point tying up that which isn't going anywhere".Joker chucked, cleaning the knife with a nearby rag. Bob looked on in horror. He was awake. He was awake and had heard him offer him to Joker first, for nothing more than a few extra minutes of life. The pure rush of nausea made throwing up seem quiet attractive.

Frank lay there, his eyes the only reflection of his emotions left, his body limp, his mouth stuffed. He wanted to run, to escape but all he could do was remain in the awkward position he was in, thrown on the table carelessly. His eyes went wider as he saw Joker lift the knife. "We'll start at the legs shall we" the maniac chortled excitedly.

SLASH, SNAP

Blood sprayed out. Bob heard a noise escape Frank, like a scream of sorts. The moan only increased how erratic the Joker was as he again brought the knife down.

SLASH, SNAP

Another moan, louder. Bob couldn't watch, he looked away but with every slash of the knife another scream of unbearable pain. He could not cover his ears so he shut his eyes tight, but that only focused his senses of the noises more.

SLASH, SNAP

SLASH, SNAP

SLASH, SNAP, CLUNK

SLASH CLUNK

Bobs faced grimaced and shook, trying to block it all out, especially that laugh. The Jokers laughter was like a roar, mixing with the stabbing and the slashing and the clunking. Bob couldn't take it and begun to wail with fear. Joker heard the pathetic man and continued stabbing, fueled by his displeasure and that of the man lying on the table.

After a few minutes the moans stopped. Frank had bled to death, but still the Joker cut, stabbing away with reckless content. For he knew this would send the message. He wanted Artist to know.

You don't.

SLASH, CLUNK

Fuck.

SLASH, CLUNK

With.

SLAH, CLUNK

Joker.

* * *

Two hours later the Joker sat in the centre of the warehouse on the table. It was just tall enough for someone of his hight to sit on it without their legs touching the floor. He was red, everywhere, what was white was now red, what was blue was now red, what was green was now red, the blood soaking through the hair net was sticking to his head even as he attempted to remove it. He pulled it off despite its glue like hold and discarded it, running a hand through his filthy red hair. It felt sticky and he used that to slick it back out of his face. He removed the gloves also, his hands slightly less worse as the inside of them had rubbed off a small amount of the blood, still present from the guards at Arkham.

He removed the plastic coat and threw it away, standing there, again in the guards uniform. He leaned back casually on the table and looked around. He was now the only living thing in the warehouse, the three men were now dead, disposed off adequately. Or at least, adequately according to the Joker. Under the table were three plastic boxes filled with meat, and behind that two empty chairs and lose ropes. He toyed with the knife as he sat, catching his reflection in the blade. He tried smiling, but his face sank into a slight frown.

_I'd kill for a purple suit right now_, he thought, _And a shower._ This look was getting boring now. But he smiled still, if anyone could make blood fashionable it was him.

He stood up from the table and begun pacing aimlessly along the length of the building, until he saw another door leading to what looked to be an small office. Abandoning his freshly created murder scene he headed for the door, knife out at the ready. It was open and he pushed in discovering a set of stairs leading upwards. He followed therm until he arrived at a room overlooking the warehouse floor, one large window covering then length of the wall.

The room was large and rectangular only about three metres wide but plenty across. At one end a filing cabnet and bookcase. And at the other a computer and water cooler. The glass was dark, you could see out, but not in and the Joker grinned. From here he could see the sea of blood that was the puddle around the meat cutting station he had used while disposing of the three men.

He almost tripped over one of many boxes littering the long room. Full of pointless files that he kicked aside as he approached the water cooler. He cupped his hands, pouring some and then splashing it on his face. The majority of the blood washed away, but a dark tinge still stained his white skin. He did the same, splashing his hands, then his hair, then his neck until he looked less like Hannibal. He slumped into a wheelie chair that sat in front of the computer and crossed his legs. Flicking the mouse to wake it up he was greeted with a register. Scrolling across it showed dates and all that crap. Joker was about to lose interest when it occurred to him that this told him when and who would be coming to the warehouse to work. He grinned. He felt like a spider sitting at the centre of a web, waiting for flies to become trapped. This was perfect.

He then noticed another tab containing a check-list, and his grin widened when a truly delicious though entered his head. _Three boxes down are you, well, _he cackled, _I have three boxes off my own to add._

For the rest of that night Joker spent his time taking note of how many people would be arriving the next morning to takeover from the night shift. He worked out that if he stayed in the warehouse for at least another day he could accumulate the precious one hundred he needed for his magnum opus. He then set about taking stock of his arsenal, consisting off three gun and a knife. After scavenging around the place that was increased to four gun and at least thirty two different types of knives. He giggled as he placed a few in his pocket along with one of the guns and the bullets from the others.

He made his way down to the factory floor, pouring the meat from the three box's he had filled into the meat grinder. It came out the other end, sorting itself in one load along with the rest of the meat which wasn't human. Joker wondered if anyone would taste the difference. "Sorry you can't be part of my special one hundred club boys, but you know how it is with comedy, gotta work with what your given". His laughter echoed around the building and continued to as he set about booby trapping the place. He counted the meat hooks, one hundred and twelve. More than enough, and some spare too. He didn't bother cleaning the blood up, if the traps worked as they should then when the next lot came in they wouldn't get that far. Shutting off the lights he made his way in the darkness back up to the small office.

He sat in the darkness by the computer illuminated by the screen, watching funny cay videos as he waited for the flies to get caught in his trap.

* * *

Okay so, I have to sit exams soon and I've been doing this instead of revision (please kill me), so I'm gonna wait till after my exams to continue updating. Which should be after this month (sorry for the wait). If I do have time I'll update but only if I do. But I defiantly enjoy writing this and any reviews are welcome. (If its shit then tell me to stop because I really cant tell).


	5. Chapter Five: By Name And By Nature

Chapter Five: By Name And By Nature

"Its been a while since I made a public appearance Alfred", Bruce said, adjusting his tie. He looked at his butler and friend with tired eyes.

"Well master Bruce, it's important to keep them up", Alfred made a left turn and as he did he looked at his young employer sitting in the back of the car and sighed. "You know I have the utmost respect for what you do sir, but I insist that you make sure you get you sleep". Alfred eyed Bruce from under the ridge of his valets cap and Bruce looked back. There was no hiding anything from Alfred, he knew Bruce was letting himself slip too much into the world of the Batman, and so did Bruce.

"I will Alfred, sometimes I forget I have to be Bruce Wayne too", he looked out the window watching the streets fly by, watching through tinted windows as ordinary everyday people walked down them, living their lives more safely, more peacefully. And all thanks to the Batman. "And its a world far crazier than Batman's".

The car stopped outside the Gotham Wayne Gallery, purchased by Bruce's late parents as part of a programme to inspire culture in Gotham. It worked a little. At least the criminals of late had become more creative,but the programme lost funding after their death, and hadn't begun to receive any more from the Wayne foundation until Bruce had returned to Gotham three years ago. Since then it had become a hub of creativity and culture. He was here to put in an appearance at its yearly fund-raiser in which various artists auction of their work for charity.

He stepped out the car and was met with the usual set of reporters, running towards him to ask him about his love life, his skin routine, weather or not he had had an illegitimate child with whoever. Sometimes he felt like just turning around and going, _"Yeah, by the way guys, I'm like totally Batman"._But of course he never would. He rolled his eyes as he passed them, ignoring their pointless questions. A considerable crowd had gathered outside, many people waiting to get in, but like many high society Gothamites, Bruce was allowed in immediately, following the large stairs up to the doors where various people handed him more leaflets and guides than necessary. Most of which could be summed up by just saying, _Go that way and the toilets are over there. _He watched Alfred enter the car and drive away to park, envying him as he stepped through the doors and into a large entrance hall.

An hour passed and Bruce looked around aimlessly. He had skipped the abstract exhibition for obvious reasons and thought it best for his own sanity to avoid the room in which various artistic films were being shown. He felt lost and uncomfortable. To him this all seemed irrelevant, especially since Bruce knew the Joker and Artist were still both out there. He felt as if he were wasting precious time looking at, well, paint splatters. But he faked interest, hoping it would get him through the night.

Ivory sipped her wine, the glass held elegantly in her hand, which was covered from her fingers to her lower wrist in a black lace glove. Her hair was up in a tight bun, one strand of hair allowed to fall over her forehead. Her black dress started just below her shoulders, the sleeves ending at her forearms and the bottom of it just touching the floor. She sipped despite wanting to down it glass by glass. She felt nervous around so many people, especially when she felt them critiquing her work. She also sipped so she didn't smudge her red lipstick. She wore smoky black eye-shadow, that itched her eyes, but only because make-up was foreign territory to her.

She stood at the door of her exhibition, looking around the room which was home to her work and would be home to the next lot which would replaced it. She traced her finger cautiously round her glass. She told herself it didn't matter what people thought, but it did. Her art, it didn't . . . fit. Not with this stuff anyway. It was too dark, to untraditional. Critics either loved her or hated her but her technical ability was always something people struggled to find fault with. She could use a brush as if it were part of her brain, wielding it like an extension of her mind.

Again she sipped as she watched people filing in and out. The same comments as always._ "What amazing brush work, what amazing talent she has,but what horrible pictures", "You'd think she'd want to draw something more cheerful wouldn't you", "I'd hate to have this on my wall, but I still think its good". _

She rolled her eyes and sipped again only to realise she was out of wine, _first world problems, _is all she could think as she looked around for another waiter, hopefully not the same one she had already taken three glasses from. That's when she noticed Mr Wayne, looking around all discombobulated. She smiled to herself. _I bet half these guys are here because they were dragged by their wives or some shit. _He looked bored frankly to be here and she sympathised with him, but at the same time envied him, she had never been able to fake interest and she had no verbal filter. What she thought was what came out. It made her tough to be friends with and even tougher to have at social events. She finally spotted a waiter she had not yet taken a glass from and replaced hers, again resuming the sipping and staring everybody down. God how she would love to just throw her glass in some random persons face and walk out.

Bruce continued his act, staring meaningfully at the paintings and when asked by others he would express a fake opinion to which others would agree and then go into depth for him as he slipped away to the next one. He was explaining how a blue swirl represented man's longing for happiness when he notice a young woman, leaning against a door looking just like he felt. She looked back at him and it was as if she was laughing ever so slightly. He raised an eyebrow but all she did was smirk. He excused himself and approached her.

"Something funny?" he asked her polity. The woman's smile made him uncomfortable as she stared right through him. After what was an uncomfortable silence for him she finally spoke.

"_Man's longing for haziness_", was all she said, raising an eyebrow of her own. Bruce stared back at her, clearly his façade was slipping. She took a sip and continued to stare him down. "You do realise art never really means anything, don't you?", she took another sip "its all lies, beautiful lies yes, but never the less lies. Its all about opinion you see, and since its possible for a person to have an opinion on anything and everything, and they do" she paused as she took another sip, "it makes their opinion of art no more valuable than their opinion of a hair-dryer". She took an extra long sip.

"Bruce Wayne by the way", he said in slight shock. Most people he had bumped into so far had talked about how meaningful art was. It seemed all this woman was here for was the wine. She was pretty, that much he noticed and uncommonly young for this sort of scene.

"cool", was all she said, again staring round the room. Bruce actually felt annoyed oddly. He had always dreamed of finding someone who didn't suck up to him and now that he had he couldn't help but feel a little . . . offended.

Ivory noticed his expression and sighed, people always interpreted her truthfulness and being rude. He was probably wondering why, as the guy who funds the gallery, she wasn't licking his boots. "Ivory", she said bluntly. Bruce stared into the room of which she was guarding and for the first time that day was actually interested. She saw this and her hatred of him lessened slightly. At least he did take notice. At lest he had taste.

He entered the room and because he was the only person all evening to take genuine interest in her work she followed, not forgetting to sip her wine of course.

Bruce looked around the room, his eyes settled on a plaque:

_Ivory White_

_Collection 241- Demons of the mind_

He looked up, next to it was the first piece, an oil painting depicting a small white angel playing with roses underneath a tree, above it in the tree a black insidious looking devil reaching down almost grabbing the angel. The plague underneath read: _Split Personality. _

There was another next to it, much larger, depicting a greyish demon lying wrapped around a small child with black eyes. The Plaque read: _Insomnia. _

Bruce intently looked around the exhibition, expressing no opinions just looking at the art. He saw anther, _Bipolar. _A beautiful female angle back to back with a black winged hag, the feathers of the wings looked so realistic he leaned out slightly, then remembering it was only a picture withdrew his hand.

"That's what art should do Mr Wayne", Ivory said, Bruce had not noticed her. "No opinions, just feelings. Words spoil a good feeling, don't you think?". With that she left. Bruce watched her as she returned to her station at the door, taking a sip of her wine, which Bruce now found less annoying.

There was something odd and unsettling about her work, but strangely relate able. Out of all the work in this gallery he felt that he could actually see what an artist was thinking. It wasn't cryptic or fancy, it wasn't even a message it was just a thing . He turned to the door but noticed one last piece he hadn't yet seen. It was small, no bigger than A1, but it drew him to it like a moth to a flame. The plaque read: _Trauma. _Its portrayal a large black demon perched on an equally grotesque gargoyle. The rain ran down its sad face, its wings dropping below it as it stared out into a land scape of apocalyptic city. Bruce felt invaded by it, reflected by it. He wasn't sure if he hated it or loved it. He looked over at Ivory sipping her wine again staring into space and then back to the picture. Was this image really that universal for pain, or was it just them too who had reached into the dark and found the same creature. He left, glancing over the beasts pointed ears, admiring the fine rain drops which trickled down its sorrowful form.

The auctions begun near lunchtime, everyone crowding the entrance hall where pieces were slowly being brought in. First the abstract section which Bruce had skipped, and after seeing them he felt relived that he had, most just paint splatters and canvas's with single dots on. These sold quickly appealing to the generics and the fake generics in the audience. The artist stood next to the auctioneer, explaining the meaning of each piece. It was all, a_gony of being human, longing to be free_, or in one case, _whatever you ant it to be._ Which Bruce knew meant, _I don't know. _This went of for three hours, different artists approaching the auction stand with their collections, selling each piece. Some were good, Bruce had to admit. It wasn't like he could paint so passing harsh judgement on others felt a little wrong. Though he had to admit they were good he was not compelled to buy anything.

When it came to decoration he had kept his house the same as his parents had. And when it came to things changing he always left it up to Alfred, who seemed to favour traditional paintings of the English countryside. They went well with the manor and Bruce, only spending minor time in it, thought them fitting too. Bruce smiled a little thinking of what Alfred would make of these modern pieces.

The next collection was Ms Whites, she approached the auction stand with two gallery hands carrying her first canvas. She drew back the cloth to reveal _Insomnia_, the reaction too it mixed. Immediately people started bidding, the number just went up and up. It was sold to a gentlemen in the front, who like Bruce found them to be obviously better than the rest. The man's wife looked unamused and probably detested the picture herself. Unlike the other artists Ivory didn't explain them, merely telling people what the name was and that it was her interpretation of that idea. Leaving it at that she winked at Bruce and he felt himself turn red.

As each of her pieces were brought forward, they sold much as the first had, taking a higher price than most of the other collection. The audience half in awe and half in disgust at the dark nature of the images. Bruce himself was surprised to see _Schizophrenia, sell for almost a million. _The large canvas depicted whispering creatures, some beautiful, some hideous, surrounding the head of a girl with black hair staring blankly at the audience. One woman said aloud much to Ivory's displeasure, "She shouldn't glorify such dispositions!".

To which she replied, "Glorification?, no, depiction. Glorification is what you see because that's what you want to see. It tells me far more about you than it does about me". She smiled at the woman, "The creatures are meant to be the voices one hears in their head, the girl looks normal because people with mental disorders look , well . . . like us. Had I intended to glorify such a thing I would have made it look far more appealing rather than the uncomfortable reality of which it is". Ivory picked her glass off the side and sipped. Bruce smiled slightly. _She's good._

The woman remained quiet for the rest of the auction, to Ivory's disappointment. She would have loved to rip into her more, show her up as the indigent ponse she really was. Underneath that skin was an animal of society, a predator of the upper class who thought this gallery charade important_. Maybe I should throw something at her. _Remembering where she was she refrained, smirking at the woman who tired to stare her down.

Finally her last piece to sell came up, _Trauma. _The bidding started and Bruce kicked himself slightly as he started bidding. Again, and again and again. The figure went higher and higher but Bruce knew he had to have it. Ivory inwardly chuckled. _Guess the playboy has some unresolved issues._

Ivory had come to realise that her paintings sold best to people who related to them. The man who bought Insomnia, suffered from it, as did the people who bought the others. People just saw them and saw themselves, and Ivory since she had discovered this had used to to her advantage. At this point it was more psychology than art. Bruce was surprised at his actions, but knew that he would never again see something tat reached out to him so much. That was so personal,

After a few minutes it was only Bruce and one other man bidding. They had it out, both desperate for the piece, the figure going beyond a million. _Well its for charity._ Bruce reasoned. Eventually the other mad folded and the hammer went down. "Sold to Mr Wayne", faint clapping from the audience drowned out as he focussed on Ivory who gave him a childish, _woop woop _gesture with her hand. He found her to be very odd, yet genuine. But she was still very bizarre due to her lack of care of others opinions and normal social conduct.

The auction ended and people filed out, various gallery hands carrying pieces out to cars, valets picking up their employers and people dispersing in their own fashion. The sun was going down and Bruce, though pleased with his purchase, had his mind focused on finding the Joker, and by extension Artist. He saw Alfred at the steps parked among the cars and gestured to two gallery hands to help him with his purchase. The looked relived to discover it wasn't one of the larger pieces and picked it up carefully, beginning their trek down the gallery stairs to where Bruce motioned to his butler. Bruce would have followed them if he hadn't seen Ms White walking out of the auction room. She wore a long dark blue coat, a rucksack slung over her shoulder contrasting with the clutch bags many other woman were holding and held her phone in her left hand. She stared intently at the screen and Bruce wondered what had so much of her attention.

Ivory had packed up, desperate to get home to make a start on her next collection. Painting was lethargic and after today she needed to relax. She threw her coat on, slung her bag over her shoulder and made for the exit of the auction room. As she did her phone buzzed, she pulled it out and unlocked it and was met with a dispatch email. She smiled. Now she really wanted to get home. The email included images of her purchases and she smiled widely as she beheld them. It was perfect, it would all look perfect. She saw Mr Wayne approaching her and quickly shoved her phone into her pocket and stared at him blankly.

"Hi", was all he said, she continued her stare, she had nothing to say and it showed on her honest face. "I uh, I wanted to say how amazing I thought your paintings were, they really are something else", he added. More staring.

Finally she spoke, realising he wouldn't go away if she didn't. "I am something else", she said, a sly smile on her face. She tucked her loose hair over her ear and winked. With that she started to walk away, pleased with her classy exist, but upset to find that he was now walking beside her like some kind of stray puppy. "Can I help you Mr Wayne?", she inquired wearily.

"I was wondering If I could give you a ride somewhere?", his offer he felt betrayed his intentions. She looked at him suspiciously.

"Mars", she said flatly. Bruce was caught off guard.

"Pardon", he said confused.

"Give me a ride to Mars, you said somewhere, that's somewhere". His confusion rekindled her amusement, "If you can give me a ride to Mars, then we can talk, till them" she paused, "Good bye Mr Wayne". She walked away down the steps. He watched her and desperately wanted to follow but held himself back. She climbed into the back of a navy Limousine and shut the door, looking back up at him with her dark blue eyes. They seemed to dare him to follow in a way and the contact was only broken with her slam of the door. He stood their dazed and confused, attracted and a little pissed off. His composure recovered when he felt Alfred's hand on his shoulder.

"If Master Bruce is done browsing then may I suggest we make our way home. That uh, painting you bought sir is securely in the trunk". Bruce looked at him.

"Not a fan?" he asked his butler,

"Of art sir?, yes. Of that sir?, I feel it goes a little too far for me" Alfred begun to walk with Bruce, "But then who's to say what art is and isn't. I'm a traditional man myself". He finished, respectfully. But Bruce knew that his friend was essentially saying. _No._

He stepped into the car and Alfred closed the door, climbing into the drivers seat. Soon they were driving away from the Gallery back to Wayne Manor. Bruce was keen to get home and get ready to go search for Joker. He looked out his window.

"He's out there somewhere Alfred", His master said coldly, "He's out there and he's already doing the unthinkable. I can feel it".

* * *

Batman was right. As he spoke Joker was creating a little art of his own. With messy reckless content the Joker hacked away at some poor bastards limp carcass. The sounds of cutting and breaking and dripping filling the air of the warehouse where the Joker planned on showing Gotham his coup de grace to the Artist. In the midst of this terror he stood, master of the knife. But this time was different, he wasn't cutting them up, oh no. He was doing something much more unthinkable. He grinned as he glanced over at the pile of yet to be altered bodies, stacked at the door way where a very unfortunate 'accident' had occurred. He laughed loudly as he continued to cut, neglecting the coat and gloves this time, ruining further the guards uniform. He hummed to himself as he made his incisions, flesh splitting as his melodic tone rose into song.

"Well they encourage you complete cooperation, send you roses when they think you need to smile", he ripped out of the body what appeared to be a bone of some kind. He stared at it and shrugged, discarding it. "I can't control myself because I don't know how, and they love me for it honestly, I'll be here for a while". Tacking out an axe he lined it up with the victims head, breaking out into chorus. "So give them BLOOD, BLOOD, gallons of the stuff, give them all that they can drink and it'll never be enough, So give them BLOOD, BLOOD, BLLOOOODDD . . . grab a glass because there gonna be a flood". He drew back the axe as it dripped and again brought t down, hearing the snap of the spinal chord.

He replaced the axe with a small knife and continued his Ballard, "A celebrated man amongst the gurneys.  
They can fix me proper with a bit of luck, the doctors and the nurses they adore me so, but it's really quite alarming cause I'm such an awful fuck.", Joker threw the small knife to the end of the warehouse, bowing as he did, "Why thank you". Ending his song with one more verse, her pulled out some thread and s needle, grinning wickedly, "I gave you BLOOD, BLOOD, gallons of the stuff, I gave you all that you can drink and it has never been enough, I gave you BLOOD, BLOOD, BLOOODD . .", He pause admiring his first finished component

"I'm the kind of human wreckage that you love!"

* * *

Ivory excitedly slammed a package down onto her bed. It was large and heavier than she though. She was relived to have finished carrying it up the stairs to her apartment. She threw off her coat and kicked of her shoes and sat on her bed next to it, filled with suspense and excitement. She gazed at it running a pale finger over the top of it as if she were flirting. She giggled and smiled at it.

A thought then occurred to her. _Artist should be born around her creations, not in some random bedroom. _She again lifted the heavy box and ran to her studio, slamming the door shut and dimming the lights a little. This had to be done right she told herself. This was her christening, to go with her violent rebirth, this was where she would finally see herself as the Artist. She struggled to contain herself. She placed it in the centre of her studio where there was plenty of space, the sky lights were open revealing Gothams knight sky and the full moon. Ivory jumped up and down. _Such perfect atmosphere. _She knelt down next to the box and opened it with a craft knife, pulling back the cardboard flaps she was hit by chills. She picked up the navy waist coat, its extenuated length and black shiny buttons making her chills intensify. She put it down carefully at her side, running her hand down its blue fabric, taking it all in. _This is becoming so real._

The next item elicited the same reaction, it was her tight white shirt, which she laid down atop of the waist coat. Below that the black body suit, it shimmered like silk but felt tough and extremely durable. Again placing it to the side she was excited to find her black coat with tails, longer than they had looked online but when she saw it she wouldn't have had it any other way. The ribbon bow tie she found tucked into the corner of the box, pulling that out at placing it with everything else.

Her boots were in a smaller box at the bottom, she took them out one by one. She may have been insane but even an insane girl can appreciate shoes. At last, there it was, at the bottom. Her mask. It's shiny gloss paint creating a shimmer on the white skin, the black closed eyes contrasting with such a pale background, as did the contours of the cheeks. The red lips matched her lipstick that she happened to already be wearing and she smiled. _Guess I'm already more Artist that I thought. _She walked over to her self portrait, the one on which she had designed her costume. She kissed it on the forehead and running off behind a screen she changed into her new look.

When she emerged she was fully dressed in the cloths, her black dress discarded like the life she was discarding with her new identity. She finally placed the mask on herself, it's ends reached under her bushy wild white fringe, and covered up half her ears, extending below and under her chin, her real face completely hidden. _This is my real face. _She said to herself. She smiled, but the expression of the mask remained still and solemn. She walked to her full length mirror and stared at herself for a long while. As she did she walked to her reflection, a wave of emotion coming over her. Happiness, sadness, everything. All of it overcome by a sense of familiarity to this strange creature which now stared back at her. _Artist?. _She thought,and said it aloud, "Artist". For the first time in her life she felt freedom, real 'do what you want' freedom.

Behind her mask she laughed, cried and danced round her studio. Tonight was the night, her big reveal. She owed herself a proper birthday party and she was going out into Gotham to celebrate in her own way.

* * *

Okay so I said I wouldn't update for a while. But I thought it unfair to leave you at a lose end so here's something more concrete to end on for the moment. She has her costume, joker had his victims. The next few chapters will see them all finally meeting and what not but until then I hope this keeps you satisfied (hungry dogs).

I also don't claim to own any of this material, the song 'Blood' is by MCR, I just thought it fit in with the Jokers scene, Batman was created by Bob Kane and all that I'm just a fan with a bad imagination and too much time on her hands.


	6. Chapter Six: XOXO

Chapter Six: XOXO

The night was more beautiful than it had ever looked, Gothams sky so usually deprived of stars, twinkled as if were displaying that which it had been holding back all these years. Artist smiled excitedly as she walked, every step one of fleeting content and giddiness. She hated herself for how uncontrollable her emotions were and attempted composure, but alas the mind wanders no matter what boundaries we put up. She had thought long and hard before leaving her apartment as to what she would do, all revved up with no place to go, she had no idea. It was then a thought occurred to her, after thinking on her short conversation with Mr Wayne she had been inspired to physically create her message, embody it fully. The message one of message-less. She raised an eyebrow at the triviality of her goal and smiled as she thought about how utterly amusing it had been to watch the man fain interest and opinions that were ridiculous but at the same time paralleled that of those who thought they knew what they were talking about. _Art breeds such know-it-all snob_, she thought. _And fake snobs of the rest._

She skipped like a small child would, down a regally decorated street in a very upmarket neighbour hood. Her midnight escapade had taken her all the way to the diamond district, Gothams richest and well kept neighbour hood. It contrasted with the dilapidated scenes she had seen in the Narrows and in her head she compared the different environments, shocked at how one could live in such comfort whilst knowing the other hardly could afford their bills. Each tree that lined the road was trimmed specifically in the shape of a curved triangle. It made Artist frown as she skipped, upset to see something so beautiful tarnished by human preference. She thought herself a hypocrite a little when remembering her passion of art, which in itself was alterations to preference, but this was different. She hated the idea that someone would try to tame something which naturally should be wild. Thinking more of herself at this point than the trees.

Her eyes darted everywhere as she skipped, looking around hawkishly for the right address. Before coming here she had made a little trip to the Gotham gallery, using her key to enter after hours and retrieve some bare essentials. She smiled as she thought about how she would use them and about what she would create. Thoughts like this made her journey short as she eventually reached her destination while in her energised.

She stared up at the grandiose house and all its tasteless architecture, sitting at the end of the street like a master at his dinner table. Reaching into her top pocked for a piece of paper she compared the scrawling of an address on the paper to the writing on the flashy plaque which now faced her and gleamed at their match. She replaced it and drew from her coat a long knife, flipping it open and examining the edges as she gazed up at the fancy gate, the letter 'K', taking centre in its curvaceous design. The expanse of the houses wall like all in the neighbourhood was purely for display and not for safety. She grinned under her mask. _Fools. _She had picked up more than just paint brushes from the Gotham gallery.

She silently hopped over the wall, reaching the other side with a soundless drop. She ran swiftly along the grass, avoiding the pale gravel drive way which threatened to interrupt her noise deprived intrusion. These fancy houses had lights which came on when sensing movement and Artist didn't want anybody to know she was coming, her movements had to be perfect, precise and invisible. Like a shadow, she told herself. Like a shadow. She ran the expanse of the garden till she found the other side of the wall, pressing herself against it with her back as if trying to absorb herself into her surroundings, making a quick check for any kind of security cameras. She followed along it once satisfied her entrance had not been noticed. The garden was filled with animal shaped hedges, trimmed within an inch of their lives as the ones along the outside road were. _Utterly tasteless. _She mocked as she slid along the wall, stopping when she reached the corner of the mansion.

A single light was on in an upstairs room, the shadow of a figure sitting at a desk. Artist noted that so far the house had seemed lacking in its defences against burglary and feared an alarm could be the end of her plans if her entrance to the house didn't go as planned. She edged up to the first window she could reach on the bottom floor, unable to peer through the drawn curtains. She stared up at the next three stories of the large house, contemplating her climb. The large expensive looking flat stones would make her journey perilous and difficult, however for Artist, the decorative Ivy which grasped at the wall, travelling all the way up to the looming roof of the house, was conveniently positioned, leaning under the window in places like small outstretched arms with which she could venture along.

Like a spider she grasped the Ivy and climbed, her thin elegant body, though fragile looking was strong and she heaved herself up until she had reasonable footing, proceeding upwards towards the light. She wrapped her fingers tight round the helpful plant. Her light weight working to her advantage as she came closer and closer to the window, eventually arriving at the horizon of it edge. She peered thought sheer drapes at the man inside.

* * *

Benedict Klark attempted to pull himself from a drowsy state, staring at the glaring screen of his computer monitor with a tired frustrated expression. He rested his head on his hand as he stared blankly at his stocks, not going down, but to his displeasure, not going up either. He rolled the mouse up and down surveying their value, refreshing every few seconds until he finally had had enough, closing the browser and leaning back in his chair. He massaged his temples, a small groan escaping him as he shut his eyes tight.

The man was balding, with greyish hair and a small goatee. His glasses had been pushed up onto his forehead where lines of both stress and age showed themselves. He still wore the blue suit Artist had seen him in at the gallery auctions, the top button done up and the tie loosened. His jacket was draped over the back of the chair which he now kicked back onto two legs, resting his feet on the table and closing his eyes.

"Benny", a loud and boisterous voice yelled. The man obviously showing his displeasure sighed and without opening his eyes replied.

"Yes honey bunny?", his voice more optimistic than his face, letting on the key cause of such early signs of ageing. It was a few seconds but eventually his wife responded.

"Are you coming to bed?", the woman's obnoxious tone filling the air once again.

"Not right now sweetheart, I'll only be a few more minutes", he lied remaining in his chair, a relaxed yet tense posture. He shut his eyes tight and was relived to hear no further comment from his other half, staying still as if to adsorb the silence which surrounded him. Forgetting his predicament and his annoying wife in the next room he begun to drift.

Eventually when he had relaxed the demons in his mind he opened his eyes, shock flooding his face when mere inches from his a horrific menacing mask was looming. He gave a notable shudder when he saw this, a small involuntary noise of sorts as well. This was before he felt a hard object collide with his skull and send him into complete blackness.

* * *

When he awoke, his head was spinning, aching, his vision no better. He was seeing a blurry double of everything, a faint ringing still lingering in his ears giving him a migraine. He was concussed, his world a slow moving wobble. Eventually his mind reset and he looked around, his skull still in immense pain as he became aware of blood trickling from it. His shock sent him into a panic attack as he looked around the room, fast paced breathing and wide fearful eyes.

He was in his dinning room, the lights dim, a few candles at the long dark oak table all that illuminated his surroundings, shinning like beacons in the dark. Reality having now hit him, he stared straight forward at his wife, bound to the chair across from him, blood and tears running down her face, her eyes looking at him, pleading with him for support and comfort. He only became aware of his gag when observing his wife's, sealing his mouth shut so that all he could emit were faint moans.

They sat like that, staring into one another's eyes, both saying with them that it was going to be alight, that they were there for the other. Benedict, caught up with trying to calm his wife with reassuring glances, didn't notice an insidious looking figure move in the surrounding darkness. Like a demon of the shadows it moved to where his wife was, emerging from the dark behind her chair, the terrifyingly emotionless mask cocking its head as it placed its hand on the end of his wife's chair. He tired to make some noise to warn her but he could not and she stared back at him fearfully and unaware.

Artist cocked her head, looking as the old man attempting to communicate with his wife. She took her time examining him, watching his struggled attempts and savouring the immense feelings of power she got from it. She hadn't come here for that, the bonus of the feeling unusual to her, yet something she promised herself she would seek out further. She drummed her fingers on the wood, smiling as the woman jumped upon realising her presence and too was sent into a frenzy like her husband.

The woman was broad shouldered wearing a light pink nightgown and matching dressing gown which reached her ankles, a small amount of cleavage showing. Her hair was done up in a lose bun, her dark blonde strands sticking to her face with sweat and blood which poured and dried from her left temple. She was a large woman, her deep breaths heaving her chest so fast Artist feared her lungs would give out before she even begun.

She leant down beside the woman's head and revealed her knife, waving it around in the view of her husband but not in the view of his wife, causing the man to panic, a panic read by his wife who too begun to struggle. Artist was drawing shapes in the air, at last bringing it close to her own neck and making a slicing motion with it causing the older man to flail as much as he could.

Artist leant down, the woman now able to see the pale faced killer, but only slightly. The old mans attention was soon diverted as she felt the cold edge of the long knife rest on her shaking skin. She held her head to the back of the chair, moaning with fear into her gag. Her husbands eyes widened as Artist withdrew slightly in preparation for the cut, his spasms almost knocking his chair over. Artist in one quick motion plunged the knife through the air towards the blubbering woman, only to embed it into the oak of the table in front of her.

She paced away to the other end of the table, where only faint light illuminated her now. She removed her mask, leaping into the chair at the end, facing her two dinner comrades. The Klarks, still recovering from shock now stared at her, less horrified now the ghostly visage was gone. They panted, relived but still very afraid.

Ivory looked at them from her dim end, completely emotionless. She sat cross legged staring at them with her wide blue eyes. "Your faces" she said simply, giving a little half glare half smile. She tucked a few pieces of hair which were obscuring her view over her ear. It would have been a flattering gesture if it weren't for the circumstances.

The couple, who recognised her immediately stared back, their eyes filled with confusion and dread.

"Nice place you got here", she said turning herself in the chair so that her legs hung over the opposite arm, turning away from the Klarks, "No, I mean it really. Well perhaps I'm merely being polite", she flipped another knife out and started to play with it, it looked exactly as the other did and Mrs. Klarks eyes flashed with terror at the memory of not moments ago. "I don't exactly love what you've done with the place. The drapes are just awful, so's the carpet", staring now just at Mrs. Klark, "and the decorum, which I assume must have been chosen by you my dear leaves much to be desired. I'm speaking mainly of course about your choice of art, so plane, so boring, so . . . uninteresting". She threw the knife so fast they jumped, Ivory had aimed it at a picture looming in front of her, a portrait of a family, showing the Klarks and their adult daughter. The knife was embedded in the daughters face.

Her audience remained frozen in horror as Ivory stood up to retrieve it, keeping eye contact with Mr. Klark. "Such a pretty little thing, she stroked the face of the portrait, "little overweight like her mother but then who doesn't like a little meat on the bones", she pulled the knife violently from the painting, drawing it down a little in a slashing motion before hand, watching the expressions of her captives increase in their distress.

made a muffled plea and Ivory walked over to him, stepping up onto a chair and then onto the table looking him over like a lion would a gaze l. She stood in front of him for a moment, that feeling of power again fuelling her ego more than she would have liked. She leant down, crouching with her hands resting on her knees.

"You say something Benny", Ivory teased, using the voice of his wife. She stroked his face gently, the sweet gesture slowly tuning foul as she scratched him across the face, chucks of flesh piling up under he long nails as she drove them across the poor man's cheek. "You should keep your opinions to yourself, or next time it will be_ honey bunny_ over there on the other end of these claws". She stood quickly, dramatically retrieving the other knife she had forced into the wood of the table, tucking them both back under her sleeves and walking back to her chair at the other end, slumping into it in an authoritative manor.

"Your probably wondering why I'm holding this little get together, hmmn?" She crossed her legs and leaned back, "Well, let me enlighten your poor weak minds". She breathed in and placed the tips of her fingers together, channelling her inner Bond villain. "I take great pride in my work you see, I feel pride in everything I create because it came from me", pointing to her head in a humorous manner, "Its a part of me. Its like I ripped it outta my head and slapped it onto a page for all to see. Its not easy though, when people judge you for it, because you know that they are judging you too". She placed the back of her hand to her forehead in dramatic mock distress, "And it hurts you know, to feel so trampled on, so exposed to the snide comments of your peers. It's enough to make one feel utterly sick", she grinned, "But not me, oh never me. I pride myself on bettering myself, improving my skill, developing . .", grinning inwardly this time, "my '_methods_'". "I take criticisms very _very _seriously, but only because I take my work so very seriously. Its just unfortunate that your criticism came at a time when I am undergoing a rather dramatic evolution", she spread her arms out slightly to show her new look off.

The older man and his wife, though calmer than before were still on edge. Mr. Klark felt the slowly cooling blood run down his cheeks, worsened by the sound of his wife's harsh breaths and low whimpering.

"And because of this new lease of life that has so kindly sought to implant itself within me, I thought it a shame that it should be kept so tightly under wraps, I'm all for sharing after all". She sat up more, uncrossing her legs. "With you, my dears".

She stayed in that position, stiff, her voice turning sour and candid, "I struggle to remember the idiocy of you comment today at the gallery, apart from some tid bits about my work glorifying madness, with which I replied conventionally my disagreement.", Ivory's tone dropped to a sinister pitch, that didn't match her innocent physical from but that aligned perfectly with her newly adopted demeanour. "But as we know my friends, art . . . can be rather unconventional, wouldn't you agree Mrs. Klark?", Ivory now addresses the blubbering woman, ignoring the old man.

Ivory's gaze was inescapable and cold. It showed anger, yes, but also pleasure. It was as if she felt happiness fueld by the rage she received from such harsh critique. "Your really did hurt my feelings", she continued, "so now", flicking out a lighter and igniting it, "I'm going to hurt yours".

That was enough to send the woman into a frenzy, her screaming and pleading coming out in a dull strain. Her eye-liner tears trailing down her cheeks and smudging into her face. Ivory didn't hesitate to march up onto the table, lean down and swiftly smack the woman across the face. It was hard, the noise it made as her hand collided with her captives face was painful to hear, and the woman though petrified now sucked in her breath and as ordered, went silent.

"Do not make a sound unless I speak to you", Ivory grabbed the woman's face in her hands, pulling it so that it was aligned with hers. "Not unless I tell you, have you got that", the younger woman stared into the eyes of her elder as she nodded quickly, seeing fear, real fear, spreading throughout the woman's iris, large and shacking, and with it she smiled suddenly and to the older woman's surprise. "very good".

Ivory removed the woman's gag, Mrs. Klark breathing in heavily and wearily "w-w-w-what d-do y-you want-t-t from us?", the woman foolishly said, Ivory turning to glare at her, and before any thought could have passed through either her or her husbands head, Ivory swung her leg round, smashing it into Mr. Klarks face.

"WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT TALKING?" Ivory screamed as blood leaked from the old man's mouth and broken nose. His agonizing scream disposed of within the coarse fabric of his gag. The wife had screamed too and when Ivory again turned to face her the older woman remained silent, looking down.

Ivory leant to her level, moving close to her ear, "I want you to think about what you said about my work, about how pathetic you are, you and your stupid husband". She brought the knife to the woman's throat, the edge just digging in enough to already draw a thin trail of blood. "And", she continued, "As I said before, I'm going to repay you in kind, in my own special way".

With that Ivory plunged the knife into the woman's neck, pushing past her muscle and into the soft tissue of her external and internal carotid artery, she embedded it deep into the woman, up to the edge of the handle, then plunging still until it was lodged in her jugular, crimson pouring from her neck and down her body like a red waterfall, pooling at her breasts and staining her pink night gown. The woman's face was stiff with shock and agony, but soon went limp, the sound of her husband screaming into his gag, the last thing she heard before falling into the darkness that slowly clouded her vision.

* * *

Tonight was another starless night in Gotham. Bruce had set out for his watch the minute he returned home, wanting to put in the extra hours, unable to think of anything else but apprehending the Joker. Last time the madman had escaped he had killed nearly fifty people, strapping small range explosives to about fourteen and then pushing them out of cars in busy built up area's around the city. When the bombs went of it had cause not only the victim to die, but also had caused the deaths of those around them, not to mention horrific injuries to those lucky enough, or unlucky enough to survive. The lunatic managed to do this nine times before Batman could locate him, only able to save the five remainders whom had been shoved into the back of a van in appalling conditions, one of them only twelve years old. Batman felt his fists tighten around the wheel.

He sped fast through Gotham, the batmobile's radio blaring out two different police frequency's. He swapped between two more, hoping that he would pick something up, something useful. But alas nothing, zip, zilch, nada. He sighed and decided that he should, in the mean time assume normal routine until something did arise. He listened for a little while longer until he heard the details of a gun man fleeing a crime scene, the officer sounded out of breath as he made the call, batman knowing that the Joker was beyond his reach so far, turned sharply round a corner, down an ally and off back in the same direction, towards to location of the crime.

Joker's game of hide and seek would have to wait.

* * *

Artist walked slowly through the mansion, it was dark, the rising flames behind her growing in speed and enormity, eventually enough to illuminate her path, her shadow looming behind her. She begun to skip, trailing her knife along the walls, slicing through the paintings which lined the hall. She twirled as she entered the main hall, staring up at the chandelier which stood above her high up on the stretching ceiling. The flames had now followed her down the corridor, fire climbing the walls, engulfing the house in its burning void. Her eyes were unmoving under her mask as she gazed up. She reached for her gun, aiming at the ridiculous fixture and pulling the trigger laughing as she did, even as the thing came crashing down towards her.

She moved swiftly avoiding the tidal waves of glass that reared up, the tip of which ended at her feet. It lay before her smashed against the tiles of the floor, bent and crooked. Artist felt the heat behind her build, having stepped closer to the flames. She moved around the disaster area and ran to the large oak doors. She traced her knife along these two, quickly carving those precious letters into it with precision and flare, drawing her arm back and admiring her work.

_Signed Artist xoxo_

She looked back into the main hall, the fire now surrounding her smashed sculpture, heading with ferocity for her as she remained still, staring into the hot dangerous atmosphere. She pulled the two large doors back, the cool night air hitting her with its icy embrace. She stepped out and again looked back, this time up at the windows above her, seeing the glow of orange that told her that soon the fire would consume the entire structure.

She resumed her skipping, heading to the first sculpted hedge, a giraffe. And as she moved past it she dragged the flame of her lighter across its body, setting it too ablaze. She giggled in giddy enjoyment as she danced around the garden, setting fire to the others as well, each going up in flames quickly. Soon she realised that her little bonfire would by now have attracted attention for neighbours. From the wall you could only see the top of the house, but that too was now consumed, the entire building covered in fire, the wood scolded black by the constant hot licks of the blaze, the voids of deep orange that trailed off into the rooms. Suddenly there was an almighty explosion, the glass from the windows shattering, raining down upon the garden.

Artist just stood there, her arms out as if to embrace it, feeling the tiny shards hit her mask as they fell, one or two actually piercing the skin of her exposed legs. She noticed the pain but was too filled with the pleasure of her actions to notice, or care. She wanted this moment to last forever, just as her first crime had. But she knew it would not, time quickly speeding up as she dashed to the wall, leaping over it with her hand for support, and running.

She made her way down a back road, hearing the screams of a an onlooker who by now had noticed the fire. She didn't stick around, moving fast until she was out of the neighbour hood, faster still until she was standing on the edge of the diamond district, sirens ringing in the background.

Out of breath and tired she came across an empty ally, slumping her body against the wall and sliding down it until she was in a sitting position. She caught her breath, she'd been running so fast for so long her lungs burned with the feeling of the cold night air having been sucked in making her throat raw. But she didn't care, her high was still in process and as she removed her mask, the inside laden with sweat, immediately cooled by the air, she smiled. Turning her head, her cheek resting on the cold rough stone, she looked up again at Gothams sky, still twinkling, still laid out before her in beautiful shades of black, the early dawn morphing its colours from ebony to deep blue, the sprinkling of stars like pinholes, piercing its surface.

* * *

So here's a little more, I know there was a period of me updating it every day, but I have other commitments and I hope this holds you over a little until I can update again. This chapter was inspired partially by Fall Out Boys, 'My songs know what you did in the dark', mainly the last part to be honest. The description of Gothams night sky was actually to show how Batman and Artist view the world differently, him sane, her insane and only wanting to see thing in a pleasing way.

But anyhooo!, next chapter will probably be longer if I want it to contain what I'd like it to, s it may be a week or two until I'm done, but thanks to those who actually read this. (Thought this site would be ashamed to have me lol).

I drew Ivory as Artist because people kept telling me that my description was a little confusing, so here I hope this helps, its her in her costume with her mask, not a work of art itself but still its an outline of what I imagine her to look like, drawn in the style of the older batman cartoons (or at least attempted): art/The-Artist-527470721


	7. Chapter Seven: A Serious Man's Serious P

Chapter Seven: A Serious Man's Puppet

Joker stood back and admired his work. "Joker old boy, you really have out done yourself", he said aloud in almost a purr as he surveyed the carnage of his creation, it had taken two days, almost all the knifes that were available to him, a massive amount of man power and a whole lot of duck tape, but it was finally finished. He wasn't however prepared to fully congratulate himself until the finishing touch was applied. A perfectionist at heart, nothing was fully complete without that little Joker touch.

Reaching into the pocket of the bloody apron, he retrieved a paint brush, black handled and white tipped, new and high quality. He dipped the fresh white of the bristles into the crimson of his apron, tarnishing its 'new brush smell'. Leaning down on the floor in the centre of the warehouse, he wrote, re-diping when needed and with harsh manic writing:

DEAR NEW GUY (THATS YOU ARTIST)

I'M THE wild card IN THIS DECK, I DON'T PLAY WELL WITH OTHERS. CEASE YOU ARTS AND CRAFTS OR I'LL SHOW YOU WHAT A REAL GENIUS CAN DO!

HUGS AND KISSES, JOKER :D

SPLIT!, was the resounding noise as he broke it in half with one easy gesture, bending it back with both hands as splinters reared back from the black, revealing the pale wood underneath.

_Ha, quite therapeutic_, he noted, as images of broken necks and spines appeared in his anarchistic mind, sending him into a fit of laughter that echoed about him, scaring the flies in the absence of any other living thing.

Discarding the apron to reveal the soiled guards uniform, red with past escapades, he made sure that his work would be found. Those victims who had gone missing no doubt having family's who would report them as such. He switched off the lights, one by one the beams that lit the warehouse shutting off until he stood in complete darkness.

He made for the door, pushing the fire exit open and laughing as he heard the alarm go of.. _If only I could see their faces. _He mused as he looked back one last time before disappearing into the night, with the rest of his agenda for the evening. "Toodlepips guys but I can't stay for the after party". He slammed it shut behind him, breathing in the fresh night air , _ah, gotta love that dead rat smell in the morning. _He looked down at his stained, red speckled watch, not in the lest bit shocked at the time. 3:56. He merely shrugged nonchalantly and begun walking, a giddy spring in his step and a smile as always playing on his lips.

The area was dimly lit, each of the vast warehouses and factory complexes spanning for miles along Gothams Harbour and industrial district, few street lamps dotted about and the ones that were glowed shyly with an amber haze rather than the sharp pale yellow of the more pedestrian parts of the city. The Jokers eyesight was, however, very acute. He could see extremely well in the dark and at this time of night had no trouble in navigating the shadows of its more isolated alley ways.

_Ah, what a beautiful night_. His thoughts begun to escape him as he journeyed, _I do hope Batsy doesn't pop up, though I do enjoy his visits and the many broken bones it brings. _His smiled widened, _I do wonder what surprises he will have in store when he sees my masterpiece. He will be angry no doubt, but his anger is what I live for. That and his seriously serious attitude. _He laughed,_ Where else would I gain so much amusement. _Joker begun to skip, no one about to see the wholly bizarre man and his behaviour.

Joker walked for some time, neither his mind or physical body growing tired, the maniac being powered by an adrenaline which many would ride only for a few hours. But the Joker could live off it and he lived for it. After two hours he had reached the edge of the Industrial district, the vague light of morning seeping into the skyline in a pinkish aura, invading the dark Gotham sky like a foreign entity playing out the vanquishing of it foe. _Oh Joker you are poetic. _He indulged his mind and had done for so far in his trek. He begun to talk aloud, a little too aloud, but that wasn't a problem for him. If anyone were to poke their drowsy heads out from their windows, ready to silence the rude passer by, they would no doubt recoil in horror and probably never sleep again upon seeing the Joker walking through their neighbourhood. Especially in the state he was currently in.

"You know what I miss?" He questioned, emerging from an alley into the furthest of Gothams derelict neighbourhoods. _What?_, an equally cackle ridden voice in his head pressed. "The sound of birds in the morning. That truly Zippidy-doo-da feeling of the morning being audible to the tired ears". _You mean instead of police sirens?_. "Exactly, not that I don't too leap with joy upon hearing them also, perhaps a remix of the two would be in order. A siren bird if you will, Penguin could do that right?, he does the bird thing?". _Yes, but you can't have both, that's Two-faces thing – remember to take that left turn!, _the voice added. "And alas mere gimmicks stand in my way again", he finished as he slipped into a narrow gap between two apartment buildings, any larger man, including the Batman would struggle with.

The dull grey bricks were an unwelcome close up, but not a view he was subjected too for long as he finally came to the end of the slither of path into a clearing. He spied the faded green painted metal steps that zigzagged down the north face of one of the apartment building and congratulated his memory for leading him correctly. Saving him from having to fire him, which last time had caused his mind great unrest. One may ask how you fire your memory, the simple answer being, he's the Joker. No part of his mind is properly fixed and most of it doesn't get along with the rest explaining how its so easy to do away with the less cooperative of the screaming horde.

He swiftly hopped one or two fences and the blockade of dumpsters which were in the way, arriving at the base of the stairs, their assent faster than any, and silent so as not to wake any occupants that may still be lingering in the decaying building. _Haheha, I have neighbours, me!, The Clown Prince of Crime. _The thought made him break his silence, laughing through his own reply, "I should pop round for a cup of sugar later", he joked, but then begun to seriously consider it, wondering what it would bring about. Just one of many ways to break his own incessant boredom.

He walked through the door-less frame that was his entrance through the top floor, and running down the other set of steps inside. The white paint was peeling from the walls, graffiti everywhere like some street gallery, the messy running paint dried in pools at the edges of the floor where the cheap tiles where long missing. It was after three flights he found the right floor, and soon, at the end of the long corridor, the right numbered address. _24J. _

He knocked, awaiting reply. Nothing. He Knocked again and again he waited, and yet no one answered. Again. Joker frustrated, his permanent up and down mentality taking a plunge, slammed his palm against the door twice, loud enough for the whole floor to hear. Deep within the apartment he could hear movement, the undisguised footsteps of the owner, shuffling about.

Joker, still waiting, an annoyed twitch flickering at the corner of his lips, leaned against the frame. When the door finally creaked open, the middle aged balding man cowered at the sight of Jokers tall form towering over him. Arnold Wesker shivered under the clowns gaze, stuttering his senescence's. "oh-h-h, it-s-s you", was all he managed, holding the side of the door as if it would provide him any kind of protection.

"Morning Arnold", Joker grinned widely in the smaller man's face. Arnold's throat went dry and in his attempt to speak was overruled by his own mouth. "Aren't you going to invite me in?", Joker pushed, leaning in close, wedging his foot in the gap of the door.

"Of c-course", Arnold managed, faintly beginning to open the door further, but pushed aside by the rude clown as he barged past him.

"Nice place you have here, very derelict chic", the Joker mentioned, sauntering into the living room where he stood next to its balcony window. Wesker, still in shock and on the verge of hyperventilating shut the door as calmly as he could, following his 'guest'. Upon his entering of the living room, he saw the Joker leap into one of the cheap red armchairs, his feet falling on top of the magazine covered coffee table. He stretched out like a cat, appearing just as tall despite now being lower down than his host. "So", he begun, "Is he here?", Joker questioned, raising a leafy green eyebrow.

Wesker stared at the Cheshire cat face and winced as he spoke, "He-he-he, Yes" he finally revealed, fumbling with his hands, his palms sweaty and shaky.

Joker smiled, "Calm down Wesker, I'm here purely on business, no need to worry", Wesker felt a little relief until he heard the clowns next statement, "If I wanted to kill you I would, but I've had quite a lot of that lately and desire something more close to home, if you know what I mean?". Hiss eyebrow raised further and Weskers confusion increased.

"And that would be what sir?", he dared to ask.

Joker clapped his hands together, interlocking his fingers, "You know exactly what I mean, I left it here last time, or at least with him, but you were there so you know where it is. Am I right'". Joker said now raising both brows in a sinisterly calm manner.

Realisation dawned on Wesker, "Oh, right", his panic now reaching its limits, "I'll go get him, he'll be pleased to see-"

"No!", Joker stopped him, holding up his hand suddenly. "Fetch me the suitcase I left here last time first, I want to look my best for him", Joker fluttered his eyelashes, "You know how it is, always wanting to keep up appearances and the like". Jokers excitement grew a little as he watched the timid old man flusteringly exist the room. He heard the sounds of draws opening and cupboards shutting and finally smiled with relief when again the man entered the room, suitcase in hand.

It was an old dog-eared item, battered with time and covered in fading leather, but was a sight for sore eyes in the Jokers case. He quickly fiddled with the number lock, entering the seven digit code, and pulled back the brass latches, the click sound soothing his erratic mind. Once open the Joker stood up placing it on the coffee table. He flipped it open and the room erupted with laughter, Wesker cowering in the corner away from the mad man.

"Perfecto!", he yelled, pulling a very precious item from the case, "Baby, I missed you". He spoke to it, holding in his hands a folded up purple pin stripped suit. "Lets never part again". He stroked the crooked fake acid flower poking out from the jackets pocket. He proceeded to check the case, ensuring everything else he needed was in there and once satisfied congratulated Wesker.

"I trust very few people with my suits you know Arnie, your lucky its in good condition or I'd wear your skin instead", He laughed loudly once more. Wesker now sitting in the other arm chair, his panic diminishing despite the worsening of his predicament. "Back in five", he speedily said, fast walking to the bathroom on the other end of the apartment, leaving Wesker alone to wonder how he ever found himself keeping such company.

* * *

Across Gotham: Diamond District

Commissioner Jim Gordon dug the heel of his foot into the burnt carpet, the black choked fibres coming apart as he did. The floor was grey and black as was the whole room. All colour had been starved from the place like a famine, leaving behind only their brittle monochrome forms. All character had departed from the place, a shadow of its former glory.

Gordon, looked up through a large window, the glass of each small panel smashed, leaving only the prison like bars, the finishing touch to the grim decoration. He paced about in the large living room, observing the vast damage of the blaze. He neglected the hard hat which the other officers were wearing, the fire-fighters long departed once the structure was deemed safe enough to enter. Gordon had tore though the house, and upon finding the crime scene had told all other officers to wait outside as forensics did their job.

Gordon was gasping for a smoke, but exercised self control over the less desirable effects of his stress. The cold pale morning was drifting in, a damp feeling rising in the air as the water used to put out the blaze mingled with the morning dew.

He had arrived at the scene early, just as the fire had been dealt with, the wait of assessing the structure frustrating but now an obvious move as Gordon looked up through the hole in the ceiling where the second floor of the mansion had collapsed in, the black wood splintered at the edges. Above that the third floor also had collapsed, creating a void within the whole building. This was the only room where the third had also collapsed, being that the gas line which exploded was directly above them in the third floor, or what used to be the third floor.

He paced furiously as he waited, wondering what was keeping him. He could hear the click of the cameras and mumbles coming from behind the door at the end, which forensics had shut behind them, Gordon surprised it didn't bring the whole place down judging by its current state. The foundations of these old houses were always stronger than they looked, unfortunately the people who lived in them were usually the complete opposite.

"Commissioner", came a low vice from across the room. In the door way to the ruins of the lounge stood the Batman, his black façade blending in with the scorched decorum. Gordon sighed, ceasing his pacing and stared at the vigilante.

"What took you so long?", Gordon grumbled turning from him and looking out the bars of the window again at the faint misty scene of the city, obscured by a blanket of trademark Gotham fog.

"What's the situation Gordon?", the dark knight said seriously, avoiding the question. He remained still and silent at the door way, his eyes unmoving and form seeming as if it was raising from the blackness around him, a demon of the ruined mansion.

"Its him", Gordon said quietly, "I know it".

"Artist?", Batman replied, less of a question and more of an assertion.

Gordon nodded morbidly.

"How many?", The vigilante pushed.

Gordon motioned with his hand to the door, "Two", he paused briefly, "One Mr Klark, Benedict Klark, a wealthy art critic and Gotham gallery sponsor", he pushed his glasses up and his brow creased, "and his wife Laura Klark. They were attacked last night at around two AM, they had just got back -"

"From the Wayne funded charity night at the Gotham gallery. I know". Batman cut him off.

"Yes, it would appear he and his wife were held hostage for some time before. .", he trailed of involuntarily, "Before their murder".

"Any leads", he pushed.

"No yet" replied the commissioner. Just then the young forensic from the Narrows opened the door. Upon seeing Batman he glared, saying nothing and turning to Gordon, pretending not to notice the vigilante.

"All done in there, we'll head back to the station and assess what we've found. I'll have one of the officers call with you with the results, should be about three hours". With that he left, followed by the rest of the team who's white plastic suits stood out stark against Batman's as they shuffled past him with their equipment, and cameras. They ducked under the police tape cordoning of the building and proceeded through the front doors.

Now alone, Gordon nodded towards Batman who swiftly moved towards the door, opening it gently. The black wood brittle, parts flacking where the varnish had been boiled in the heat. It swung open with a creak, the metal of the hinge also damaged in the severe temperature of the blaze.

The door swung, as it did the scene slowly peeling into view like a twisted page turn in a children's story book. Batman lost composure ever so slightly, but not enough for the Commissioner to take notice. The detective removed his hand from the door, standing emotionless once again staring into the case study of sickness that lay before him.

The skin of the victims was indistinguishable from the surroundings, dark and charred, the only difference being the small crusty drops of blood, bubbled and burst on the surface like demonic froth. The faces and bodies, race-less, genderless, classless and identity-less in their fire stripped forms, their only character their grotesque physiognomy.

Batman was no stranger to the damage fire could do to a person, having unfortunately been on the end of Fireflies rage more than a few times, acquiring a number of harsh burns which had added to his collection of scars, ever growing in his nightly escapades. It was not uncommon either for him to be called to a crime scene where fire was a factor, having a vast amount of knowledge on the subject and a reputation which would suggest so to others. But this was different, this wasn't just another crime scene, perhaps if it were just the corpses, but a more sinister factor waded into it. And it sent a chill right up Bruce's spine.

Wires, burnt black and dull by the fire, but no less noticeable were curved round the joints of the bodies, wound across them and running like jutting out veins across both the black forms. The metal positioned them, holding them up like puppets, the ample strength of the copper substance just enough to support them.

They danced, frozen in time, the bizarre sculpture of seared flesh, positioned in such a state of elegance. The hand of Mrs Klark, placed gracefully over that of her husbands, his hand resting on her scorched waist as hers curled round his neck. Damaged remains on damaged remains.

Gordon looked ahead coldly, following once Batman begun to move further into the room. It was a big room, sort of a small ball room, with what looked to have used to be fancy tiles and regal wallpaper. The Batman paced around the sculpture, precisely placed in the centre of the room, the light from the broken windows shining down over it, framing it in a grid of small squares. He felt his fist tighten.

"We uh, we couldn't wait", Gordon interrupted the silence, "We needed to gather what evidence we could so I sent them in early". With no reply from the Batman he continued to fill the silence, "I know you like to get in first, but we couldn't leave it, I'll tell you everything which comes back from the labs".

"That won't be necessary", at last he spoke, "I'll get what I need from the GCPD database". With that he pulled his scanner from his utility belt and approached the sickly sculpture, carefully surveying it closely.

"WHAT? How?", Gordon demanded.

"I hacked into it a few months back. Remember when you got shot and were in that coma?, Detective Bullock took over for that time, wouldn't tell me a damn thing". The device beeped three times, signalling to the vigilante it was finished analysing. He replaced it in his belt and brought forth now a small pair of tweezers and an evidence bag.

"You had no right to go behind my back!", Gordon exclaimed angrily. He trusted Batman, always had. Everything he did he did for the good of Gotham and its citizens, he would never question the vigilante. But God damn it he wished that Batman would ask him once in a while for permission, passwords, whatever it was that was needed. Just so there was at least some pretend, of want of a better word, _authority_ he had over him as a police commissioner. Their mutual understanding was born of a goal of protection, a shared vision of safety for Gotham, Gordon would never get in the way of Batman, not since the early days had Gordon ever tried to limit his endeavours. If Batman wanted to get into the GCOPD, Gordon would have let him.

"I know", Batman admitted, peeling a flake of flesh from each of the bodies and placing that too in his utility belt. "It was during Two face's last rampage, I would have asked or told you, but things were out of control and Bullock was being too difficult". He looked at Gordon sincerely, though the shape of his mask hid his expression, showing Gordon nothing more than one of many blank stares he often received during their encounters.

"Well, it doesn't matter now does it, you probably do more with it than most of the forensics anyway. But next time at least act like you need my help", he said half smiling, suddenly remembering he was at a crime scene, the faint sign of cheerfulness diminishing immediately.

"I will", Batman replied, heading to the door, "I am well aware I would not be as good as I am without your help Jim".

"Yeah well, likewise Batman, I like to think we make each others jobs easier and more worth it". He turned but the dark knight was gone, vanished as usual. Gordon stared though the window at the Gotham mist, which would soon part and reveal more than just bricks and mortar, but far sinister events.

* * *

Batman strapped himself in fast, revving up the engine of the bat-mobile and quicker than anything was one, speeding down the roads of Gothams lower levels. He flicked the coms unit on, "Alfred I'm returning to Wayne manor, I need to analyse some skin samples and check the GCPD database".

"Very well sir", came the voice of his trusted friend. The dark knight leant down to switch it off when Alfred's voice once again sounded off, distressed and full of worry "Sir!, sir are you still there?", the Butler said in a panic.

"Yes, Alfred what is it?!", Bruce desperately answered.

"Its on frequency 04, quick you must listen!". With that Alfred's voice was gone, Bruce immediately turning on the police radio.

"_This is officer Colbert, hello?, anybody? I need forensics and as many officers as possible. Some one get Gordon, Jesus, you haven't seen what he's done to them, Oh God-"_

"_Calm down rookie, what's your location?"_

"_Mason on third, down near the old meat house, please just send some more guys, its Joker. I think it was him, but its sick man, real sick. I'm outside by the car. . . I can't . . I can't be in there man, this isn't what I signed up for"._

At the mention of Jokers name Batman made a sharp turn, heading back into the city, towards the Industrial district. Praying it was not as bad, that this time the madman hadn't gone too far.

* * *

Joker admired his messy reflection one last time, sad to see such a terrifyingly unconventional and horrific look go to waste. _Shame only my victims will have seen my macabre façade_. He thought, "Meh, It was wasted on those losers", he replied as he threw cold water up into his face, stark white skin again becoming clear. He turned on the shower, setting it to its hottest setting, feeling the steam burn his skin before he even plunged his head underneath it. The Joker had a vast bank of knowledge when it came to removing blood, especially congealed blood, and it wasn't easy or comfortable, but being a man of many uncomfortable experiences, little now bothered him, least of all minor scalding.

He stripped off the worn uniform savouring the memories of the truly thrilling nature of his escape and the events after it, partially thanking Artist for spurring it on. But upon thinking of the name became once again annoyed and remembered why he had broken out in the first place. His downer caused him to leap into the burning water, barely gritting his teeth as the fluid washed over him, swirling away the red and crimson tones down the rusted plug hole. He remained like this, head leant on the white tiles, the hot water running over the back of his and torso where he hadn't bothered to swipe at during his '_crafting'. _

After five or so minutes he shut of the water, emerging into the still heavy steam that clogged up the air of the small bathroom. Opening the small window he let the city's cold air in as he dried off, his pale skin still a snow white despite its temperature, the only evidence of a rise a faintly dark patch under his eyes and sunken in cheeks which were more grey than red.

Once completely dry he performed the much anticipated event of dressing himself, glad to feel himself again as he put on his purple trousers and orange shirt. He strapped on his green suspenders and green bow-tie, tilting it deliberately for that askew effect. Socks,_ check,_ black dress shoes, _check._ He slipped on his purple jacket, its tails beginning around his lower waist and stopping at his knees, a fine crease between them.

In its pockets he found his playing cards, almost a thousand dollars, a hand buzzer, a knife and a mint. He crunched the mint as he pulled from the suit case a pot of hair gel, slicking his hair back with it. After he had done so it rose slightly as always, some strands of the hair falling out of place, but perfect to Joker none the less as he glared into the eyes of his own reflection.

"Ahh, I almost forgot", he realised, leaning back down into the case, pulling from it a long cane with a jesters head atop it. "How could I forget you". He returned once more, finding a purple fedora among the chattering teeth and Joker gas bombs, a green which matched his hair ruining around the base of the headdress.

Applying to his appearance the hat and cane he smiled in delight, "There's noting like a classic". And with that he broke the mirror with his cane, laughing as the shards flew about the bathroom in a shiny sharp rain.

When he emerged he was swinging his cane, sliding on his shoes into the living room where Wesker still remained, his eyes glued to the exact same spot as when Joker had left a short while ago. When Wesker looked up he was unsure weather he was either less or more terrified of the clown, now fully resembling his famous appearance.

"Whaddaya think Wesk's", Joker said giving a mocking twirl. Wesker smiled shyly.

"Classy Boss", He thought was a good answer, and relief swept him when he saw Jokers pleased expression.

"Now", Joker begun, "Next order of business. Where's the little guy?", Joker walked to the window, spinning and leaning on it, staring Wesker down like a crocodile.

"He's here", the older man replied, motioning to a large black box beside the arm chair. "He'll see you now, he says you have to turn around". Weskers voice was now emotionless almost, wavering on the edge of indifference.

Joker cocked his head, but upon further thought humoured the man, swirling around to the morning view of the ally the window offered its residents. He heard the noise of Wesker opening the box and the assuring sound of wooden clanking as the little man applied his puppet. After a few adjustments Joker finally heard the person he had come here to see.

"So you came back Clown, shame you ain't dead, been nothing but trouble to me and this moron here". Scarface introduced. Joker smiled while facing away, turning to see the scratched puppet perched on Wesker leg, the large crack on its face travelling from its forehead down its neck, passing over its wide black eyes. "I see you found you shit, congratulations, now what the hell do you want?", Scarface continued getting straight to the point.

Joker resumed his position in the armchair opposite Wesker and Scarface, leaning in close so he was more conversing with the puppet than Wesker himself. This was how he preferred it.

"Well my dear friend, thought I'd stop by is all. Can one friend not visit the other?" he asked rhetorically .

"We ain't friends freak", said the menacing tone of the puppet. Its jaws opened comically as Wesker controlled it. Or perhaps it controlled him, the Joker had never been entirely sure but was happy to go along with whichever.

"Awww, your breaking my heart Scarhead", Joker mocked the wooden man, grasping where his heart was and placing a hand on his forehead in a faint gesture. "And I thought we-", he bit his fist, pretending to tear up, "Had something". He again smiled, swearing he saw the wooden brow of the puppet frown. But he was just as loony as Wesker so he didn't think much of it.

"Listen Joker, Arnie here may be a little pussy, but I ain't, don't fuck with me or else I'll see you never stop smiling", Scarface's hand ran across its wooden neck in a cutting motion. _Adorable_, thought Joker.

"If only you would Scar's", said Joker, done with the warming up banter. "But I'm not here for empty threats", he leaned in as if to intimidate the wooden man, "I'm here for your services".

"Services?, Last time I gave you my services, wakko Wesker here almost ended up in Arkham", Scarface sounded angry, Weskers shudder just noticeable. "Plus you still owe me for that truck you busted up in the process, ain't easy to pay a mechanic too keep quiet you know, 'specially when the bat beats them to a bloody pulp".

Joker reached into his coat pocket and threw the roll of money he had found on the coffee table, "Five hundred", he declared, "Cash". Scarface eyed the Joker and then his head turned to Wesker.

"The fuck you waiting for Wesker, count the man's money, you making me look like a bad host". Wesker did as Scarface told him, quickly fumbling through the money. His brow sweated when he finished.

"Uh boss", Wesker said unsure.

"What!", Scarface spat back, his body jilting on Weskers arm.

"There's nine hundred here". His voice shaking under the gaze of both Joker and Scarface, two sets of black inset eyes observing him like owls with a limping mouse.

"For the mirror", Joker explained, breaking the silence. "I, uh, Well I slipped", He lied, smiling.

"The mirror don't cost four hundred dummy", Scarface cut it, "heck, I doubt everything in this apartment put together would cost four hundred dollars". Scarface added grinding his wooden teeth.

"That's actually something I've been meaning to ask", Jokers tone sounding more casual, "Why you lying low here, I mean I can see Wesker living here, but you Scarface?".

The wooden man's voice was frustrated and deep, "There have been . . . complications". Was all he said.

"Care to elaborate", Joker again cocked his head and raised his animated eyebrows.

"My police informant squealed when put under pressure, gave away the names of my associates and all my safe houses. We currently run things from here now until my partner can arrange something more suitable". Scarface said, taking the nine hundred from Weskers hand in one snatching swing. "But don't change the subject clown", he said getting back on topic, "what's the extra four hundred for?".

"Your services, as I said before. I need guys, not many of them, but a few brawns to match my many brains if you catch my drift". Joker's voice low and eerie. "Four hundred upfront now, Ten grand when the jobs done".

"Ha, you expect me to believe you have that much money", Scarface scoffed.

"Will have Scar's, will have. Once I carry out the job". Joker reassured.

"This job", Scarface begun sceptically, "What is it?".

Joker smiled wickedly, "Raiding the Gotham gallery. I have something I want to do there you see. I am currently on a quest to reassure my title as top anarchist in this town. Another kid has unwittingly wandered into my sand box if you get my meaning, and I'm not having it at all. I'll plant my plastic spade his head before I roll over into the corner". Joker sounded angry, his fists gripping the arms of the chair. His purple gloves creaking as they scrunched.

Wesker put his back as far as it would go into the chair.

"I am on a mission my friend, a mission to annihilate this imposter. I am erecting piece's of my own all over Gotham in the hope that he will see them and know of his impending doom, like a cat playing with a bird before the fatal blow". The enjoyment in his voice was evident when talking of Artists 'fatal blow'.

"I know the guy of which you speak Joker, seen his little spree all over the news. Personally I'd like to bring him down a peg or two myself, he's bad for business trust me". Scarface chimed, now agreeing with Joker more and more. "Wesker the remote". He added. Wesker handed Scarface the remote. He switched it onto channel 7 news, where they were showing footage of a serious house fire and some blurry amateur taken images of the inside through the windows. They showed the charred remains of two bodies, dancing it seemed.

Joker had not yet seen this, but it fueled further the fire of his anger which grew inside him. But no matter how hard he tried he couldn't help but see its sheer genius and imagination. He liked it. He wished he had thought of it. _How dare he. _Was all the mad man could think. However he reminded himself of his latest work and how much more shocking it was, reassuring himself that he was still top dog, even if the news hadn't quite got wind of it yet.

"The trick", Joker continued, "Is to watch, see what he does, where he makes his moves. I already have a good idea of where his next little slaughter will be", Joker touched the side of his nose and smirked an evil smirk. "The trick is to not only rival his murders with my own brand of violence, shadowing his. But to get inside his head a little, see what makes him tick.. That way we can eventually catch him and unpick him piece by piece". Scarface was now nodding and smirking too, Wesker witnessing the devious plot yet saying nothing to discourage it.

"At least the way I see it is to draw him out, let him have his fun, but always keep a looming dagger above his head, wait for him to fall into place and then-BAM!". Joker brought his fist down onto the coffee table, the magazines flying up temporarily upon the impact. "I'll get you into the gallery, your guys can loot and wreck what they want, so long as they don't bother me. And if Artist turns up, he's mine". Joker brought his fist up to his face, crushing the air, his eyes flashing violently.

Scarface was silent for a while, "I'm in". He eventually decided, "When do you want to do this?".

Joker's eyes intensified, his small black pupil shaking with wildness in the sea of toxic green. "When can your guys be ready?",

"Tonight", Scarface assured.

"Tonight then". Joker declared leaning forward towards the puppet,

* * *

"_We make our move tonight"_

The day passed quickly for Ivory, she slept in as usual, awoke in time for lunch with a friend and then quickly made her way back to her apartment, spending the rest of the afternoon in her studio painting.

She stretched, her shoulders aching from leaning down for far too long. Admiring her latest piece, she rested her stiff torso on the wall behind her, it's cold surface soothing her knotted muscles. Her hands, arms and face were laden in smudges of red and black, specks of deep orange here and there. The plain white shirt she painted in was baggy and sweaty and also suffered the war wounds of her frantic painting. But it was worth it, she told herself as she gazed at her work.

A large canvas lay before her, depicting a man and woman, waltzing in fire, their bodies were of fire and so was their surroundings, great curls and wisps of flame wiping around then as they turned in the heat of the passionate flames. They were almost life-size, but a little smaller, the black oil paint shiny and giving the work an almost demonic touch, recreating the scene she had created physically the night before.

She smiled though felt partial sadness that even if people admired her new painting, they would never see the real work of art that inspired it, never truly understand its meaning and see it as she did.

Her alarm went off on her phone and she swiped, the clock revealing it was past seven. Her smile again revealed itself. She was up like a bolt, filled with energy once again as he stripped off on her way to that bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes behind her. She savoured the ice cold water running down her face and hair. It was always a shock when it first hit her but soon she enjoyed it as she felt it wash away the paint stains on her body. As if it had cleared Ivory away from her being she leaned on the shower wall with both hands, resting her head. She smiled, savouring the feeling of purification and renewal.

She emerged, drying off and wrapping the towel around herself. She re-entered her studio and walked across the room to the mezzanine area, climbing the steps, bringing her closer to the skylight window. Once at the top she wandered over to a black set of changing blinds which separated off a small corner, behind which was her painting of Artist.

At the foot of the canvas was a black trunk, within which her nights entertainment lay. She changed quickly and excitedly, staring into the long mirror to the side of the canvas admiring her appearance. She placed her mask ceremoniously over her face as if it was the last part of her transformation. Her werewolf moment of transition. Gathering up her _'essentials' _and a shiny new Shepherd handgun she had purchased in the lead up to Artists birth, she left, ready to conquer yet another violently artistic feat.

* * *

Okay so I said it would be two weeks, but what I really meant was like . . . four. But hey here it is, I swear I'll et to some romance sooner or later but I'm stretching this out a little because I want it to have pay off. (Bullshit excuse for wanting to sound all profound and crap).

I'll update soon, (I'll won't update soon)


	8. Chapter Eight: Void Of Violence

Chapter Eight: Void Of Violence

His hands clutched the steering wheel in a mixture of rage and worry, every turn he made fueled by his uncontrollable desire to punch the madman. His knuckles tensed as in his mind, Bruce muled over imaginary situations where he beat the Joker to a bloody pulp, hammering him into the concrete of Gothams pavements, on the floor with the rest of the city's filth. He tried to relax, breathing in and out slowly, but as he did the images of the meat warehouse came back to him like macabre homing birds, flashing pictures of dismembered carcases and ripped flesh in his brain, causing him to unravel back into his state of anger, gripping the wheel once more the way the rage gripped him.

As the city's streets shot by through the darkly tinted slits of window around him, the once bright day now darkness, filled with harsh lights and slowly ebbing ones, he fell into a state of numbness as he recanted in his head the events of that morning.

_As he pulled back the large metal door of the warehouse, the chained handle lying on the floor smashed and limp, a putrid smell,only conceivable in hell, drifted past him contaminating the air with its rotting stench. Batman was knocked back by it, the obnoxious light of the day blazing through the building, like a spotlight that sought out its star in the scene. He covered his mouth, his eyes shutting involuntarily as he did, gripping the side of the door for support as he adjusted to the sickening aroma emitting from the place. When he finally gained some composure, his jaw dropped, stiffening in emotion once again yet retaining his mental expression as he gazed at what lay before him, something that genuinely shook him to the bone. _

"_Joker", he whispered to himself, half mournfully and half enraged, "What have you done? . .". _

_Practically painted with blood, the expanse of the room was red like hades, the four pillars of the building dotted with smiles and roughly drawn imagery, comprised of scrawled laughter and smiling faces. The Jokers trademark. _

_This was a minor detail, barely processing in the Batman's mind as he failed to get past the Jokers first sickening hurdle. Gutted like the carcases of cows, hung what looked like two hundred or so bodies, from every meat hook in sight. The dark metal claws of the ceiling, attached by chains had been pulled aside so that they created almost a border around the room, of all walls except the main door. As if he knew Batman would enter there, preparing the stage for his pleasure. The claws punctured the flesh of the carcass's that dangled at different levels, some lower, some higher, but all possessing the same brutalised physique_

_He could not escape the featureless ball that was the head of each person, nor the skinned exterior,each of them Jokers hunting trophy, each another face he would see in his nightmares. _

_Batman dared not take a step closer, merely staring into the void of violence which laid itself before him, begging for judgement. With the officer who called it in long gone, and no one in sight. Batman fell to his knees._

"_I'll kill him", he shakily ex hailed, raising into a scream and then at last a roar, "I'LL KILL HIM!"._

Numbness swept over him as he drove on, both the coms and police radio switched off, silence tormenting him in their absence. Batman had not returned to the mansion after that morning, he couldn't bring himself to look at Alfred to tell him or to pretend all was okay. All was not okay and unless this new form of Joker violence was halted, it never would be. He had spent the day pulverising less notorious criminals, listening to the police radio, finding gang crimes and dissembling them along with the perpetrators front teeth and ribs. Batman seeing the Jokers face on all of them.

Above all else, the scrawled message had pushed his anger to the limits, reflecting the unreal nature of the Jokers whims. To kill to prove he was still top dog, to murder to show he was 'better', to mutilate to show he could somehow, in his own depraved warped reality. 'Create' something.

What had brought this on?, was the mere idea of a challenge to the Jokers reputation as most bad shit crazy person in Gotham all it took to set him off like this? Batman wondered, the Joker after all was childish to a certain extent, the idea of someone overshadowing him perhaps too much for the mad man to conceive. But no, this felt worse. Batman had seen the Joker defend his title before, but never so . . . . evilly. The dark knight did something he had not done in a while and after all he had seen so far never expected to do again. He shuddered ever so slightly, as if a winter chill was creeping into the city, even in the summer heat the cold hand of foreshadowing was looming, teasing. He would not lose his city.

Batman drove on. This ended tonight.

* * *

Next chapter will finally have Joker, Artist and Batman all come face to face which will be amusing to write. It'll be a much much MUCH longer chapter and probably won't be uploaded for a while due to the cruel mistress of exams which are slowly eating away at my sanity (send help I beg you).

Peace out!


	9. Chapter Nine: In The Dark

Chapter Nine: In The Dark

There's an odd thing about darkness. Its not always scary or ominous, it doesn't always have to be something we fear. It can be beautiful, delicate and wonderful, like a misunderstood twin of the day. True, the dark can hide unimaginable horrors, provide hiding for the unknown, but it is that unsettling aspect which makes it so appealing, we fear the unknown, we fear the dark. But if you don't fear the unknown, the dark is exciting. If you don't fear the dark, it eludes to something new.

_Something new huh?_, Artist pondered as she crept through shadows, the far away ceiling of the hallway standing what felt like miles above her, its Victorian style light fixtures cold in the absence of their fires. The moon was bright, the lonely globe daring to touch Gotham with its equally chilled rays, shining through the tall windows, in-keeping with the buildings neoclassical architecture. The windows created thin slithers of damp white, which traced over Artists form as she continued down the hall of the gallery, silently stepping over the dim red ornate tiles.

She had always loved this building. It appealed to her due to its Gothic yet cheery nature, an attitude not too different from her own. She felt at home here, the looming walls more comfortable than her central heated apartment. But alas all glasses have a crack, this one being the paintings.

Ivory had a keen eye, she knew what she liked, but was never able to find it. She had never known art she preferred, other than her own. Narcissistic perhaps? I guess. But that didn't halt her feelings of irritation as they donned the walls of her precious gallery, tainting it with their pedestrian styles.

At last she reached the end, a dark spruce framed arch leading to the main hall of the building, the centre of the gallery. From here there were two wide sets of stairs, black marble leading up into the second floor, between them on the ground a white marble statue, a recreation of the Venus de Milo. Artist paused and looked at the copy with a perfectionists eye. _It just needs something else._

She approached the piece and taking from her duffel bag a black maker, drew a crude pair of glasses and a beard onto the sculpture. "There" she breathed stepping back to admire her childish vandalism. She then proceeded up the stairs. Arriving in an exhibition full of sculptures she searched manically for an empty display case, knowing full well the works were in the process of being moved. She found none and found herself almost on the verge of panicking when suddenly she spied one, all the way at the end of the room, in the middle of a smaller selection. She bounded towards it, skipping a little as she came closer, pressing her hands and face against the glass. Empty.

She jumped a little in celebration and dropped her bag at its base, reaching from it a long knife with a serrated edge and a her Shepherd. She put the gun in her coat pocket, easily accessible if something were to go horribly wrong and held the knife in her hand, tossing it from her left to her right as she exited the exhibition. Now the hunt was on.

* * *

Mark Warwick hadn't had a particularly interesting life. Another grey person in the sea of nobodies that lapped against the sands of society. His job as a night guard was just many in a long line of run of the mill professions which caused him great boredom, yet helped him get by.

He whistled to himself as he patrolled the corridors, shining his flash light around aimlessly, unsuspecting of any intruders. He had been working the night shift for six months and in that time had never seen or heard of a break in, mainly down to their being much more valuable stuff to steal in the jewellery store two blocks away, but hey, you can never be sure.

His rounds took him past the main hall and then into the nearest exhibition. However he didn't get that far as he stumbled back, again shinning his flash light on the Venus de Milo replica. Confusion and fear gripped him as he swung around, shinning his flash light everywhere like a panicked wasp. "I don't want any trouble okay", he yelled at the darkness.

He glanced back at the minor vandalism. Has to be kids, he told himself. Some stupid uppity teen having a laugh. It relived him to think it was some delinquent youngster as opposed to a hardened criminal, who wouldn't think twice about bashing in his skull. He begun to sweat a little though, he was sure that it hadn't been there an hour ago when he first passed.

He reached for his walkie-talkie but stopped suddenly. _What if it had?_He thought carefully. Thought about how stupid he'd look if he called it in and it turned out to be nothing more than a kids prank. They'd never let it go. _Stupid Mark, unable to handle a teenager. _He stood up straight and puffed out his chest. _Hell no._

"Listen you!" he begun more authoritatively this time, "I don't know what you think your playing at but come out now or you'll be in some serious trouble". Sounding like a father scolding a four year old, he shined his flash light again over the surrounding area. "There's security cameras in here". He belted, resorting to dropping threats.

He saw a quick sharp shift in the shadows and clumsily moved the beam to that area. Nothing again. He stepped back to the statue, closing the ground behind him.

"Good" came a venomous female tone, "They shall watch me work". It came from behind him, he swore it had and spun round only to face the lifeless statue. He heard air rush behind him and spun again, only to be met with darkness. His heart raced and his imagination did too, concocting demons which would reach out and grab him from the shadows, pulling him into their jaws.

"Enough!" he yelled. "I'm done playing games, this isn't fucking funny". He knew not where to look, every shape an assassin, every noise a beastly growl. "Where- UAK!". He fell forwards, grabbing his side as it bled profusely, soaking his blue shirt, the pain shooting up his side like a spreading fire.

"Shhhhh" came the echoed voice, "You should be grateful for this gift". The voice was no longer coming from one place but from all around him it seemed. Perhaps it was the blood loss, but every syllable moved around him like a winding snake, Mark the helpless prey. Instinctively he reached for his walkie-talkie, his thumb inches from the switch when a gun shot went off, his whole hand exploding into blood and bone, a new fire now spreading through him. He screamed and the voice laughed.

"There there, not long now", the voice almost sounded comforting as his vision went blurry, his limbs tingling under the stress of blood loss. His hand in absolute agony, or at least what was left of it. A dripping noise partially concentrated him, drops of red falling just beside him. Upon looking up he saw a shape move along the ceiling, but as he did he fell further forward onto his stomach, his lids struggling to stay open. From the black at last emerged his demise, a tall slender figure, face hidden beneath a nightmarish façade, her beautiful arms in the moment like a scorpions tale as she held the knife, dripping in his blood. "Shhhhh" she said again as she leaned down next to him and stroked his cheek. Fear could not grip him, he was too drained, even as the knife entered his throat he was already slipping away.

Artist stood above the dead security guard, glad there were cameras to record her in action. She congratulated herself for her performance. _Very spider and the fly. _She hauled the body up the stairs, a much less graceful act which made her wish she wasn't being filmed, stumbling a little due to the weight of the man and her own minimal strength. But no matter. Once he was by the display case, the body slumped against the foot of it and a trail of blood left behind her route she begun her work.

Hours went by, the night progressed onwards, her creation complete as midnight passed and it grew darker still, the morning far away waiting in the distance as the moon rose further in the sky.

She packed everything back into the duffel bag, wire cutters, copper coils, nails. All except her gun, keeping it by her side like a safely blanket. Before she slung it over herself she looked once more at the now occupied display case, approaching it whistling under her mask. The guards head and torso were warped and shaped with wire in the same pose as the Venus de Milo, the arms and legs severed amateurishly leaving the scratched protruding bones which Artist felt only made it more shocking.

Her version was better she thought, as she traced a slender finger along the glass, creating circles where the death sculptures wound was visible. She had skinned the torso, but still the jagged knife wound remained much to her displeasure, a smudge on her canvas. She frowned.

It was then she heard voices and a crash from downstairs, becoming immediately alert like a startled cat. Her hand latched round the gun in her pocket, her ears listening intently for any other noises. _Time to leave. _She told herself and begun to step back from the case. She would have been out of there like a shot if not for a sound which intrigued her, far more refined than a crash or thuggish curse.

Applause. Artist jumped at the sudden clapping which she heard behind her. A slow clap, a genuine one without cynicism. A little afraid, which she was ashamed to admit, and a little glad at the appreciation, something else she would not admit, she turned around. She saw a figure in the shadows, sticking out from them in the light of a nearby window a pair of purple gloved hands. Still clapping. Saying nothing she pulled out the gun from her side pocket and pointed it at the pair of hands as if they themselves were the threat. She took of the safely and cocked the barrel.

The hands immediately stopped clapping. A silence passed and Artist felt a gaze from the gloom upon her, a sharp and contemplating stare which unnerved her. "I never could keep myself that clean", at last she heard, that notorious melodic tone that could only belong to one person. One very particular person. She shivered from a mixture of fear and adrenaline. "I'm surprised that you managed to do all that yourself, and all without getting an eensy bit of blood on you", he took a step forward, completely illuminating himself, "your good at this". Jokers grin encompassed his entire jaw, appearing as if it went ear to ear along his ghostly face.

His eyes were surrounded by black, sunken in, his iris's a toxic green, shinning like search lights from out of their sockets. His hair was a darker green, slick and manic at the same time. His famous purple suit contrasting with the blacks and greys which surrounded them. He was the obnoxious rainbow in the rainy sky. The pepper on the pizza, like Jazz, unconventional yet functional all at once. He was tall, so much that the top half of his face was still dark as he was far taller than the stretch of the window. He leaned down a little though, his head bowed slightly so all of him was in view, all 6ft 9 of him.

"Aren't you going to say hello?" his smiled widened. Artist gripped the gun tighter now, ready to blow a hole in the madman's head if he made one wrong move. "A lack of manners doesn't become you my dear", his voice dropped to an intimidating tone. Artist shuddered as each dry sounding syllable crept past his lips.

"So your Artist", he begun again, returning to his cheerful disposition. "You were harder to find than I though, points to you I guess. Did you ever get my little threat?, perhaps I was too late to reach you. No matter", he waved his hand nonchalantly, "That was for them, the ever adoring public so that they'd know why you'd died. So that when I make an example out of you no one ever tries to out do me again". He ignored her gun and slowly started walking towards her from across the room, swinging his jester topped cane between his fingers. "Yes my dear, your little pattern of crime wasn't too hard to figure out, you left bread crumbs at every opportunity. Though I doubt they were intentional. Speaks to me as the work of someone who's become sloppy, or", he came closer, "The work of someone who's having too much fun to notice. I know the feeling". He seemed to get taller and taller as he approached her, his entire form like a cartoon drawing, a fictional character, seeming surreal in his reality. "I expected a guy, sexist I know, how dare I assume such things". He sounded slightly apologetic but Artist felt mocked. "Forgive my misguided preconceptions".That part sounded genuine at least. "I have no prejudices or discriminations", his tone again became intimidating, "I'll kill anybody". His eyes flashed with violent compulsion and Artist steadied her gun as like a shark he came towards her, teeth bared in a deadly smile.

"That's far enough!", Artist spat as the Joker stood only inches away from the barrel of the Shepherd. She felt she had to take control of the situation, but as she looked up into the gloom above her, Joker loomed, far taller up close than further away. Especially compared to her 5 ft 8 frame. She didn't falter, showed no sign of fear. This was her show and not his circus. She had no idea what he was talking about, she hadn't received any messages or left any damn bread crumbs. _Did I?_

"At last she speaks", he pretended to be shocked. "Go ahead then" He dared her, his smile widening even more. Artist looked at the gun and then up at the Joker, pulling the trigger without another thought. All that came from then gun was a tiny flag, BANG, written across its yellow material in red cartoon writing. Artist was horrified and expected the worst as she gazed back up at the clown. She was sure she had poked the tiger with a sharp stick, now expecting its claws to descend upon her.

The Joker erupted into laughter, it was like a hyena's and surreal to experience up close, more so that his horrifying appearance. His eyes even begun to water from it. He regained composure, still suffering through spasms of giggles. "Ha, you actually would, you really would have done it", a large spasm hit him and he found it hard to keep a straight face or at least what would amount to one for him.

Artist panicked, pulling the trigger again and again only to hear clicking. This only made the Joker lose it more, "Really?, your still going to try". He spread his arms out to give a clear target, "Go ahead my friend, try". She felt the rug pulled from underneath her, the same feeling you get when your about to fall and you suffer through a second or so of dread.

He thought her scared in her frantic actions, and would have continued to if not for the Shepherd which he felt suddenly thrown against his chest. It didn't hurt but the shock of her bold actions made him stop laughing, turning to her with a startled expression. Her open palm shot out at him.

"Give me back my bullets jerk". Her voice wasn't shaky at all. It did sound frustrated though, like a kid whose had their toy taken. No fear, their had been before he swore their had been. But that had disappeared, replaced by this new emotion, one which, in his mind didn't fully understand the situation she was in. She sounded . . angry. "I said give them back, how the hell did you get them in the first place, I haven't let that gun out of my sight". Her hand remained where it was, unyielding.

Joker stared at her, his smile disguising the deep mechanical functions of his brain, resulting in him reaching into his jacket and handing them back. "Its a secret" he replied, tapping his nose and winking. She reached down for her gun, yet Joker was faster, moving like the speed of sound to snatch it from the ground just as her finger brushed the metal. "Ah ah ah" he waved the gun slightly in a tutting motion, "I'm not going to let you just load a gun and shoot me, I mean, that would just be silly. Not to mention uncreative", he held it lower and Artist tried to grab it, Joker moving it just out of her reach when she did. "Cute", he mocked her again.

_Uncreative, UNCREATIVE!_. Artist flushed red under her white mask. "Give me the gun", again came her demands. Any other person would be grovelling to the Joker not to kill them, but not Ivory. Not Artist. She knew what she feared most and it wasn't death and it most certainly was not the Joker.

"Didn't you hear-".

"Give me the gun and I'll shown you creative!", her voice lacking in all emotions, pure determination. Joker laughed again, this encounter more interesting than he had expected. He handed her the gun and watched with piercing mad eyes as she loaded one bullet into the chamber, spinning it and shutting it.

"Creative enough for you?". It wasn't a question. She pointed the gun under her neck..

Joker knew she was bluffing. No one was that crazy. Well except him. But most people he had met wanted to live for as long as possible. She was either suicidal or had balls of steal. He could work with both if need be.

She pulled the trigger and heard a click, but Joker saw no exhale or sign of relief in her. No indication of pleasure or despair. Nothing to suggest she wanted death and nothing to say otherwise. _Curious. _

She handed him the gun, him, the Joker. No one gave the Joker a loaded gun unless they had a death wish.

"What if I just emptied all the chambers into you right now", his voice snake like as he took a step closer, touching the barrel to Artists mask. She didn't move, gave no indication of anything.

"That wouldn't be very creative". Was all she said.

His smile spread beyond possible limits as he put the barrel under his neck and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked and Artist observed he gave no indication either of the effect the result had on him. He smiled all the time and his eyes were intense and insane, there was no expression other than twisted happiness. And even that may not have been the case. "Your turn", he spoke darkly, handing her the gun.

She hesitated and Joker thought he saw through her bravery, through this convincing pretence. But what came was not a plea or a threat. "Did I really do that good a job?", she asked, sounding almost happy. Artist looked up, awaiting his response as if his validation was a medal. The Joker had been the one in the beginning to turn killing into an art form, he had started this trend, she had only followed. And now, the one who started it had sought her out, to what?, eliminate her. That meant she was good, too good.

Joker stopped smiling, "Too good a job my dear. But you forgot one thing". He moved closer now, pushing her head back with the gun she hadn't accepted back. "There is only room for one Joker in Gotham". The gun clicked as Joker pulled the trigger. She smiled under her mask deviously. She now had validation, he now knew she was just as good as the best. Perhaps better.

She snatched the gun and now aimed it at his face, which was still grinning. He looked pleased, as if he enjoyed this deadly game of chance. She did, even if she lost, the adrenaline of the moment was pushing her forward, further in the abyss. She felt for a brief moment that she was back in the Narrows, back at her birth place surrounded by the fire. On the edge again, something deep down below her waiting, waiting in the dark, waiting in the unknown.

Click

"Four", was all the Joker said, taking Artist's hand with the gun and sticking the barrel in his mouth. He put slight pressure on her finger to push the trigger, glaring at her from the other end. She glared back, hoping this would be the one. Joker is top dog in Gotham, no one messes with him. Just imagine if I kill him. Grandeur pressed her finger under his into the trigger. Her heart stopping.

Click

"Five", she counted, her tone less demanding yet still equally venomous. She removed her hand and blankly stared at Joker as he hesitated.

"Take off the mask", was all he said, his voice dark and eerie.

"Why would I?", hers matching his. Her mouth twisting in a smirk underneath.

"I want to know what you look like before I put a bullet in you face. So I can compare how much more beautiful I've made you". He giggled as he spun the gun on his finger. "Your not the only one who's a perfectionist don't you know".

"Not likely". She would happily be killed by Joker, to die at the hands of a legend rather than through old age or illness. She had immortalised herself already through the challenges she posed to him. Gotham would not soon forget her crimes. But if she survived, her identity had to be protected. Artist wanted to protect, needed to protect Ivory. Ivory was still such a child, still so attached to her world. She remained masked.

"Oh", he seemed displeased, "And why is that?". Joker moved closer, now only one or two inches from her. Now she felt intimidated, but that didn't matter, nothing did. She had won in her eyes. _I am your equal am I not._

She pulled the gun in Jokers hands to the centre of her chest, allowing her to lean up and try to be level with him, as she did she put pressure on his finger to squeeze the trigger. "Its a secret".

Click.

"Six", she said before descending from her tiptoes, pulling the gun from his hands that loosened around it. "Correct me if I'm wrong but this is the last one".

"Correct", Joker could not hide his amusement. Would this really be it for him, he swallowed in anticipation as she raised the gun to his face. Time stopped as she did, the two staring each other into submission. Both with the same look, saying the same thing. _I am better._

She focussed through her excitement. She was really gonna do it, she would be the one to kill the Joker. Her!. She would never have imagined that she would be doing this when she was eating her sugar puffs that morning, nor when she had flicked through the boring channels of day time television. But here she was and here he was.

"Do it", he sounded like he was demanding her to kill him, like he wanted it, his voice so happy, his face a picture of glee. He wanted his punchline and it was her.

Artist suddenly let go of the gun, a sharp pain hitting her hand as the batarang blocked the barrel, the vibration only leaving her with a moment of agony but taking away her moment in the history books forever. Like black lighting Batman came from nowhere, leaping at the Joker and knocking him over.

Artist didn't register beyond that. _How dare he. _Under her mask her face contorted into hatred.

The two men fell to the floor, a darkly cloaked figure and a bright clown battling it out on the dark red tiles before her very eyes. She acted fast, retrieving her duffel bag and making a run for it. She read the papers all the time and knew, well, hoped, that maybe he'd be too busy beating the Joker into the floor to catch her as she ran like hell. _Holy crap its Batman, _Her mind not fully getting what was happening to her, Artist acting now from instinct rather than her illogical distracted thoughts.

She charged down the stairs, along the hallways, she had always been a fast runner. She passed what looked like a bunch of guys tied up round a pillar, all wearing clown masks. _Wonder what happened there. _Paintings were piled up ready to be stolen from the looks of things. _Good, they were shit anyway. _All she cared about was escape.

She approached a small fire door in the main hall and burst through it, setting off the alarm. _Shit shit shit shit shit. _She dare not look back, but just as she was heading down the ally way outside the gallery her heart dropped. She felt a thin coil of rope wrap round her ankle and with it she plummeted to the ground, her heavy bag landing on top of her. Water enveloped her front as she fell into a puddle, rain pouring down into the streets, overflowing the gutters.

She rolled onto her back and tried to get up. A foot fixed itself on her chest, the black boot of Gothams dark knight. He glared down through his cowl at her, Artist back in her undying pure hatred, he had stolen from her such a defining moment.

"Who the hell are you?", he demanded, his tone forceful and harsh, his voice disguised under a deeper one.

Artist felt enraged. _Take away my moment of glory and now forget my name huh!. _She struggled under his boot, hating every moment.

"Tell me who you are!", he raised his voice, it didn't scare her but she stopped and looked straight at him.

"You went for the wrong one", she hissed.

"I said-"

"YOU WENT FOR THE WRONG ONE!", She screamed at him, the sound un-muffled by her mask. He leaned down to force it off, Artist realising slammed the back of her heel into the concrete floor, an arrow head blade emerging from the toes of her shoe. She kicked him in the back, the blade missing his spine by mere centre meters. The pressure applied by his foot lessoned and she wriggled out quickly as he again came towards her, dodging the blade as she kicked out again.

"Stop", he shouted. But Artist wasn't listening, all she could see was red. He punched her, not hard enough to break a rib but it winded her, giving him enough time to regain himself and again strike her across the face. She fell to the floor, yet held her mask on tight. She curled up slightly on the wet floor of the ally, looking vulnerable like a scared animal. But she wasn't scared, not of him.

Batman approached her, feeling slightly guilty yet perfectly justified. Bad move. She again kicked, this time into the side of his neck. It wasn't enough to kill him, but he fell back grasping the wound. The kevlar had stopped most of the blade but he was bleeding far too much.

"I've already bled out one person today", she kicked him across the face, breaking his nose, "I don't mind doing another". He grabbed her foot and spun her, causing her to lose balance. Falling again she rolled and got back up, quickly closing the space between then, her punch blocked by his fist but her kick to his abdomen not. The blade sliced through the kevlar, embedding itself in his stomach.

Batman fell to the floor, Artist crouching on his chest, staring down into his face with her emotionless mask. "You went for the wrong one Batman", she repeated, "I am his equal, I am just as good as the Joker". She dug the blade in a little as she crouched creating a new shallower wound. "My name is Artist".

Batman fought through the loss of blood but was too slow for her as she retrieved her bag and disappeared into the rainy night, leaving him lying on the wet floor in a puddle of his own blood.

"Alfred", he chocked, pressing his communicator on the side of his cowl. "Alfred, send the bat plane on autopilot. I'm *cough*, sending you my co-ordinates". His hand fell to the floor, his muscles unresponsive.

"Master Bruce is everything all right?, Master Bruce?".

He collapsed into dizziness, but fought for consciousness. He heard clapping. The Joker approached applauding once again, standing above him. He was too tired to speak and couldn't move, he tried though and the Joker laughed at his futile struggle.

"Good isn't she!", he exclaimed, "Surprisingly good". He stared down at the limp dark knight and laughed. "How pathetic you are my dear delusional dark knight, how pathetic indeed". He walked around the vigilante, "I'd be dead if it weren't for you, you could have been rid off me without lifting a finger don't you know". Batman's hearing was the first to go, everything slowing down and sounding low. "Ah, but of course you do, your like that aren't you. Oh well". He put on a purple fedora and waved good bye with his cane. "I took the liberty of untieing my men, but now if you excuse me, the night is young and I'm far from done". With that he too disappeared into the rain.

That night had been a disaster and Bruce cursed himself as he drifted into unconsciousness, the face of the Artist imprinted onto the inside of his eyelids as he fell into his nightmares.

* * *

Artist was lost, despite growing up in Gotham she had never been to this part of the city. Rain poured down as she searched for a familiar sign or indication of her whereabouts. Her head hurt from Batman's fist and her lungs were burning from all the running. But her adrenaline, Jesus her adrenaline. _What a rush_. In one night she had almost killed the Joker and beat down the Batman. Perhaps this whole costumed freak thing was her calling all along. _Should have done this years ago_.

She could no longer hear the gallery alarm, telling her she had wandered into a far off part of the city. Gotham was massive, she could be anywhere. The rain continued to pour down, harder now, draining away into the sewers, taking her rush with it. Soon it was cold, dark and she was still lost. With hours still until daylight she pushed on through backstreet's, not in the least bit keen to be spotted in her chosen attire, not now that she had been filmed murdering someone.

Cop cars were everywhere, no doubt on the look out for the Joker and most likely her. She had seen dozens of them, even patrolling the lesser known roads which meant that she didn't stand a chance of finding the main road and with it indications of her location. If she encounters this many cops here she didn't want to think how many she'd find on the main road. They were serious about this. _Woop I'm part of a man hunt cool_, she silenced her thoughts.

A car suddenly turned the corner and Artist was almost caught in its headlights, dashing into another ally and hiding behind a bin. It passed by slowly and she breathed hard with her back against the plastic dumpster. She saw her chance and dashed across the rode, again running past another that almost saw her. Everywhere she went she came across another. _Oh come on! _She sprinted now, attempting to outrun the search area of the cars, but it went on and on. So did she until while galloping down a small pathway behind some high street shops she turned just as her face collided with a wall of pin striped purple .

"Why the hurry?", a sinister and familiar voice pressed itself to the air. Artist stumbled back, reaching for her knife, only to find it wasn't there in her pocket. "Looking for this", the Joker dangled it, the serrated edge gleaming in the light of a far off street lamp. He smiled as he eyed the jagged edge. "A little amateurish for someone like you eh! Artist, I'd expect better". She just stood still, looking up as she realised rain was no longer falling on her. Joker held a large yellow umbrella, explaining why he was dry and she was no longer getting wet. "But then again your just full of surprises".

"You!", she said through shivers, her hair sticking to her mask in a mixture of rain and sweat.

"Me!", he replicated her shock amusingly, laughing at her even more deranged appearance.

"How did you escape the bat?", was all she could think to ask, the last time she had seen him had been during their fight which he couldn't possibly have won.

He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. "Its a secret".

Artist looked up in frustration, "Back to that again are we". Artist frowned under her mask, which was now becoming more and more uncomfortable. _Note to self a design flaw. _

"Well you ran off so quickly, if you'd have stayed I'm sure you'd have known the outcome, but alas you were gone so fast, leaving me with nothing more than a glass slipper". He pulled out the Shepherd, the batarang still embedded in the barrel. "Um, excuse me one moment", with a only a little difficulty he pulled it from the gun and offered it the her, "You want one, I've got hundreds". A small smile came to her lips, though she was glad it was hidden from him, she was still unsure what it was he wanted entirely. She took it from him and the gun also, stuffing them into her now heavier bag.

_God dammit, next time I'm just gonna use feathers. _

"However", his voice sounded off, "I did stop around to watch your little match with batsy, and I do have to say it was no disappointment. My, my, that whole, _please don't hurt me _thing you did was sly. Played right into Batman's do gooder little heart. And then BAM!", Joker made a slash with the knife in the air, causing Artist to move back quite a bit, back into the rain. He laughed as he recalled the sight of it all, Batman beat up by a woman half his size. It was hilarity at its best. "I like sly, I don't kill sly", he finished in his darker tone. He noticed she had stepped back, stepping forward to once again encompass her under the garish umbrella. "This special incognito umbrella helps me evade he law". Artist highly doubted it, not really sure how to respond to that.

She didn't protest, wanting nothing more than shelter, even if it was the devil who was giving it to her. She caught his previous last four words and was unable to hide her curiosity. "Is that what you came to do?, tonight I mean?". Her voice wasn't upset, in fact it sounded like she understood perfectly why he had wanted to kill her.

Joker thought about his response, "Yes", seemed to do the trick, there being no easy way to explain to someone that you planned to murder them and then use their body for some horrific centre piece. "But like I said, I had misconceptions, and after seeing you handle the bat so well, I feel it would be a destruction of comedy to do away with such talent, talent that is merely akin to my own". He put an arm round her and raised his umbrella up as if he was giving a speech.

Artist still felt uneasy about Joker holding the knife, but less now she knew he didn't plan on using it. _Great he doesn't want to kill me, yay for me. _

"But I am angry", suddenly he turned, his face and voice somehow becoming more vicious, more intense. Artist backed up against a nearby wall, Joker stalking her right too it until she had nowhere to go. He dropped the umbrella, the storm now showering them both in icy water. She looked afraid.

"You should be", he hissed as if he could read her mind, brining the knife to her neck.. "You could have killed me tonight Artist, if you had it would have been all the more fun. It's a shame batsy had to be a party pooper and steal that moment from you. But none the less you were going to be my end, and I would have been pleased with such a fate. But no one has ever dared kill me, no, nobody dare raise a gun to me. Everybody fears me, that's how I like it. You saw all those guys in the gallery tied up. They were my guys. I acquired them through intimidation and fear. Fear is what I am". He brought his other hand and grabbed her throat, not hard enough to strangle her but enough to make her panic. "I'm not angry because you too see the futility of life, no, that makes me like you more and more Artist. I'm angry because you don't fear me"

He tightened his grip and her hands grabbed at his wrist, not pulling back or clawing, more like she was holding on for the ride, wanting to hold tight to something like she knew he was going to do whatever he was going to do and she was okay with that. Artist knew the Joker killing you was a mercy, he had done far far worse things to people and left them alive. She did fear him, but not in the way others did, she feared his wrath more than his actual self. What he could do and not who he was. Yes, she did fear him.

Joker sensed her panic, but her acceptance of her situation annoyed him. Where were the tears, the begging, the wild flailing. He was finding it hard to apply the pressure, her grip making him feel uncomfortable in doing what he was about to do. He needed an excuse to back off, but he was stubborn with himself. Usually even if his victim was much weaker than he was, he would not hesitate. And given how angry he had been at Artist, what he had planned to do to her for days leading up until now, ever since that first news broadcast with her first crime, he had hated her, even if he didn't know her, he hated her. But now he did, everything went out the window, except his anger. He was filled with a rage for a target he didn't want any more.

He gabbed the edge of her mask, meeting no protest, throwing it to the floor in the rain. As it lay there he looked for the fear in her eyes, finding it immediately. That was enough, that was all he needed. He let her go, her eyes still scared, paralysed with fear. Their deep night sky blue made her iris's hard to find, but he had and in them what he wanted.

If he had any concept of beauty she would have met the criteria. Her skin was almost as pale as his, her hair a snowy white. She was typically beautiful, which he despised a little, having always had problems with society's expectations and standards. It seemed this woman was determined to make him hate her despite all their similarities.

He hadn't said anything for a while, so Artist spoke, feeling her fear subside, "Okay", she smiled lightly. He found it bizarre as he was usually the one to smile first. Her reaction to his actions equally bizarre. But she had agreed to fear him.

"You'll find Henderson Boulevard down there by the way", giving her the name of the main road and pointing at the end of the ally, he picked up her mask, brushing the rain of with his sleeve as if to shine it, handing it to her. "You look better when you smile", was all he said, smirking to her as he did. Artists didn't expect it but Joker handed her his highly conspicuous umbrella. She took it without saying anything and watched as he started towards the opposite end of the ally. Spinning his cane and whistling to himself as if she were no longer there to see.

"So do you", he heard as he left and she no doubt in the opposite direction. Both lunatics disappeared into the night. Neither understanding the other as much as they would have liked. Neither having expected what they had found in the dark. But it was not knowing that made the unknown exciting.

* * *

Omg I actually finally got to it, after Eight fucking chapters. I need to cut down on my pretentious bullshit and just get to the point sometimes. Defo going for a pairing, though it might be a bit of a bizarre one given that both these characters don't really have a notion of love. Could be crap, but meh! its fanfiction.


	10. Chapter Ten: Extracts of Madness

Chapter Ten: Extracts Of Madness

Joker removed his hat, standing under the shelter of a nearby store front. He ran his hand through his mostly dry green hair and looked at his soaked fedora in annoyance. _Should have kept the umbrella, _he thought, "_Just because your mad is no excuse not to be a gentleman"._Said one of his many voices.

"_Gentleman,really?. I suppose that title comes with strangling people then",_another harsher voice cut in. For a moment it was like there was a separate conversation, a gathering of voices talking inside his head but too quiet for him to hear properly.

"Hey, do you mind?", he said aloud angrily.

"_Piss off"_, came a high pithed tone from far back, _"This is a private conversation"._

"_I said we should kill Artist, she's just another zombie like the rest", _A voice a little more like his own mentioned.

"_I like her", _said a softer one.

"_You like everybody", _the harsher again replied.

"_Why can't we all just hug", _the softer argued.

"_WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!", _this one was terrifyingly loud, with a voice like nails on a chalk board. Joker grabbed the side of his head as the voice made itself known. It always gave him a splitting headache whenever it voiced its opinions _"I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE ARTIST, I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE UMBRELLA, I DON'T CARE ABOUT ANYTHING, NEITHER DO YOU. YOU DON'T CARE, YOU DON'T CARE, YOU DON'T CARE!"._

"_I kind of care", _the harsher dared to argue_. "We were going to make a example of her, show Gotham we- I mean, 'he', is the only true Joker"_

"_I DON'T CARE ABOUT JOKER, ", _again he gripped his head in pain. _"I DON'T CARE WHO HE KILLS OR DOESN'T KILL, ONLY THAT HE DOES. THERE CAN BE NO REASONS FOR IT. THAT JUST TAKES AWAY THE FUN OF IT"_

All the voices murmured a little in agreement, "_True"_, said the harsher, _"There in no rhyme or reason to fate, only cruel and unfair chance. Like big bad Harv said, there are no real decisions, not when you consider the cosmic joke of it all". _

"_We thought of it before that two faced prick did, he copied from us and we never sought to kill him",_ The higher pitched one added.

"_Where are you going with this?",_ replied the harsher.

"_We are the master template, they only wish they could be like the real Joker", _high pitched explained.

"_Perhaps we make Jokers of them all?"_.Harsher concluded.

Joker jolted his head back violently in an attempt to nudge them back into his brain, vacating them from their current place at the forefront of his thoughts. He closed his eyes, wishing them to go, opening one after a few seconds, hoping they were again dismissed.

"_Are they gone?", _said a single voice now, exactly like his own. "_And I thought I was mad_". He heard laughter in his head, his laughter. And relaxed a little._ "But their right, fate is random, your fate, her fate, everyone's fate, even ours. The big mouth was right, It doesn't matter, not really, nothing does"._

The rain continued to pour down, heavier and heavier still. Checking his watch, Joker replaced his hat, nudging it over his eyes as he stood one foot on the floor, one on the wall, leaning forward now on his cane.

"_Who cares if she put her foot in your sand castle, you can build another. Even if its destroyed again it doesn't matter, now you know the futility of it all. More to the point, so does she. You should be thankful Artist has come along to remind you of that fact. Now your yourself again"_.

Joker's face smirked, a wide grin as he felt cured from this vengeful desire at last.

"_You were angry over nothing granted, but look what you accomplished. Did you see how enraged the bat was with what you had done. That was the true Joker. The unpredictable, the maniacal, the pure madness of action. She has revitalised you, shown you again what you are", the voice was excitable in his head, "Now we can continue, there is still time left this night to show them, show them you are still The Clown Prince Of Crime"._

Joker's smile was evil and amused wile he waited, "Buddy", he said looking up into the rainy sky, "I think your right".

* * *

Ivory felt the warm air of her apartment as she came in, dropping the umbrella, kicking off her boots and shedding her soaking black coat as she stretched. She removed her mask, dropping it on the pile of soaking cloths as she undid her waistcoat.

She walked into her kitchen and opened her fridge, shivering at the colder air wafting into her wet weather beaten exterior. She pulled out a bottle of white wine and placed it on the counter, fetching a glass from the cupboard and pouring herself a generous amount.

She sat on the floor of her kitchen, drinking slowly, cross legged and blank faced. She did this for about half an hour, only having one glass, placing the bottle back in the fridge and walking on tired legs into the bedroom. _Really, wine before bed?. _She scolded herself.

Collapsing on her soft black sheets she rolled back and fourth and spread out her arms. She closed her eyes and felt how good the fluffy welcoming texture seemed against her tired body._ I am never gonna leave this bed again._ She thought as she stripped off the rest of her cloths and coiled herself into the plump warm sheets. She submerged herself in their embrace and fell into a deep sleep, the clock beside her bed flashing the red numbers of 5:15. She was lucky she worked from home, all she waned to do at the moment was sleep and soon she was, embedded in deep slumber.

_She writhed under the feeling of the pressure, her hands travelling to her throat only to be met with a strangers. He squeezed and though she could breath she was suffocating still, wriggling desperately as the strange figure's grip became even more tight. She could hear laughing as the hands strangled her, the leather gloved purple hands that had chased her to this dark corner of her nightmares. _

_The laughter continued as the grip became unbearable but still not enough for her to pass out, her nightmare lasting longer than any she had ever had before .She felt weightless and the hands pulled her off the ground by her neck, holding her almost as if she was some fascinating object. She looked up into the clouded depths of her dream and saw two frightening large green eyes, surrounded by shadows, bearing down upon her. She couldn't look away, couldn't move her head. She touched the hands with hers, weak and frail by comparison, trying to pry them away. It was no use. She went limp in her efforts. She just looked up, her eyes meeting this demons, their stare locked. She felt herself going, leaving her body. The feeling was both terrifying and yet some how pleasing, she didn't want the the monster to let go, lest she loose it. _

_She liked the constriction in a bizarre way, at the same time as it being terrifying she felt herself getting off on it and hated herself for it. She looked up still, the eyes more intense than the grip. Suddenly they let go and she fell, falling though her nightmare, falling away from the fearsome eyes and their shadows. _

Ivory awoke with a jolt as if she had fallen from a great hight, she looked at her clock, 7:23. She rolled over and shut her eyes, clamping her lids, desperately trying to return to sleep, trying to chase the twisted dream, longing for the fear and enjoyment of the experience again.


	11. Chapter Eleven: Picture Perfect

Chapter Eleven: Picture Perfect

His head throbbed and ached as he turned, his vision slowly coming back to him as he opened his eyes, meeting Alfred's worried expression, his feature bright from the white light above him, hurting his sheltered iris's as they came into contact.

"Alfred". He whispered tiredly.

"Don't move sir, you've had some very nasty wounds patched up and too much movement could cause them to open up". As he came too he noticed all the medical equipment surrounding him as he lay on the bat cave operating table. "That knife was deadly, it almost severed the skin of your stomach, you lucky it didn't". The butler wiped his hands, they were covered in blood and gauze. Bruce laid his head back again, focusing on the bright lamp above the table.

"How long have I been out", he asked as he drifted.

Alfred pulled down his rolled up sleeves, doing up the buttons off his cuffs, "About four hours, I feared the worst. But I had faith in my surgical skills. I brought you back in the bat plane as you asked", he picked his jacket off a nearby chair and begun putting it back on, "You kept falling in and out of consciousness, something about a mask and a girl. I didn't get anything useful out of you, I assumed you were hallucinating and ignored it".

Bruce's mind was now fully awake and raced with his memories, "I was, the blood loss made me see things Alfred, my attacker", his voice faltered, "The Artist".

"Well", Alfred replied, "I find it hard to believe that you suffered such injury from a young girl", he looked sceptical, "I find it even more difficult to believe that she may me this Artist fellow you have been tracking".

"She said her name was Artist, I didn't believe it either, but she was at the scene of the crime", his voice seethed, "That and the Joker doesn't applaud just anybody. The way he spoke about her, it was like he admired her", his voice again a whisper, "And there's only one type of thing he admires Alfred".His butler had stopped what he was doing and focussed on his master, "And that's death".

"You think he has had something to do with this?", Alfred pressed.

Bruce's eyes narrowed as he looked at the white lamp light, "No". He replied flatly, "When I saw what he had done in the industrial district yesterday", his words shook away from him as his eyes again saw the destruction Joker had left in his wake, "He left a message, said he wanted to kill her", Bruce looked visibly shaken at the memory, "I knew he wasn't anything to do with the Artist. Artist is sick, but no one's more sick than the Joker", his voice disturbed, "He sure proved that". His fist tightened and his tone became full of rage."He wanted her dead, I know it, he hates usurpers of his title. No doubt when his spree hits the news no one will ever doubt him again, that stunt he pulled in that warehouse, I don't think I've ever seen him do something so evil".

"This is the Joker sir, he's like that all the time is he not", Alfred pointed out.

"No", Bruce's fists now red with pressure, "This was beyond that, I don't even think its the last time he'll do something like it. He really upped the bar this time". He tried to calm but his anger was only replaced with dread as he turned his head away from Alfred. "He wanted to out do Artist very badly, now I fear she may respond the same way. I can't let that happen. No one else will have to die because of my stupidity".

Alfred rested his hand on Bruce's shoulder, "It's not your fault", his words were sincere and calm.

Bruce jerked away, "Yes it was", now again angry at himself, "Because of my actions two dangerous criminals are still at large. I was played Alfred, I let my emotions charge my decisions", his teeth grinding, "Artist looked so frail, so easily breakable, so vulnerable. I shouldn't have hesitated, she was a serial killer, she wasn't some victim. But she fooled me, made me naïve. I won't let that happen again Alfred".

His butler remained silent, merely watching his master. The bat cave was large and a silence filled it, the bats at the hight ceiling scratching and squeaking, louder now than ever before in the soundless plane of conversation. "It is because you have compassion, it is because you have mercy", he at last spoke, "You did think, but not like them because you aren't like them, either of them. Your instinct is to help, not harm. It was a trick you should be proud to fall for. Granted, now you know for next time. But batman is not only a fist in the face or criminals, but a hand to pull people from the dark". He spoke as if it were a great truth, Bruce turning to see his friend look at him with pride.

"Your right", he agreed, "But she knew that too, and used it against me". He looked pained as he lay there bandaged and scratched. Alfred finished packing up the equipment and headed back up to the mansion.

"Can I get you anything sir?", he asked turning back to the operating area, realising Bruce had already moved to the seat of the bat computer, much to his butlers displeasure and against his own better judgement.

"No, I'm all right", he said. Though as Alfred turned all he could think was, _No sir, no your not._

* * *

Joker admired his work, sitting in a small wooden chair in the corner. _This is more like it_. He laughed loudly, rocking back and fourth. He had planned to return to Weskers apartment, or perhaps his hide out, but after a night like that he needed to focus his energies on something, relax in a way only he did.

He threw the knife in the air, catching it by its tip, barely having to look at it as he did. Sitting in the corner of the houses living room, he stared at the couch, his latest victims slouched onto it, their smiles cut wide from ear to ear with their arms around one another. A father, a mother and their young son.

"_Ahhhh how sweet, I like that, better than the last if I do say so",_The voice said.

"Why, what was wrong with the other", he said annoyed with himself.

"_Oh its nothing, the other just lacked a certain Je ne sais quois if you get what I'm saying"_. The Joker had done this to every household on that street, each time positioning it's inhabitance in a different pose. The first in the shower, the second around the dinning table and so on. This had been the last house and his favourite version so far. _"However there's always room for improvement"._

Joker surveyed it one last time, getting up and walking up and down in front of it, "Such as?", he quizzed himself. He took a long look round and saw the television remote on the bookcase by his side. _That. _He thought as he flipped the television set on, some morning cartoons brightening up the blank screen.

"_Perfect"_, more than one voice said in unison.

"Awww, what would I do without you guys". He said in a grateful tone through fits of giggles.

"_Probably go totally and utterly sane_", replied the harsher.

Joker picked up his hat and cane from the coat hook by the door, slightly opening it before glancing back into the living room._ I'm on a roll. _He shut it and looked out into the lightening shade of sky above. He begun to hum, opening the white picket fence of the house and then closing it behind him.

"I see tree's of green", he sung a little, coming to a lamp post and swinging round it. "red roses too". He hummed the rest in tune despite his famously crooked vocal chords, "I see them bloom, for me and you", eventually coming to the chorus as he crossed a road, the empty street meaning no one too see him skid dance across to the other side, "And I think to my self, what a wonderful world".

"_Is this necessary?_"poked up a more logical voice from the depth of his crowded head.

"Absolutely", he said, curling is words with his smile.

He found himself eventually near his hideaway, a place he had managed to keep a secret since he first discovered it. Having walked the great distance across the city to get there he still felt full of energy, despite having missed two nights sleep in a row, but who cared, he could go for a week in this mood.

Jokers hide out was in an old factory, it had many deserted floors and its appearance from the outside told people there was probably nothing in there, even if they ventured inside they deemed that it was so weak it might topple on them. But these old buildings, Joker knew would never collapse. They were built from hardened stone, their structure like steroids. It looked like it had aged well, having been built in the 1920's, its exterior beaten regularly by weather and damp, moss growing along its ash coloured walls.

Its large entrance was bolted shut, he had always had to sneak in by a door at the side, hidden in-between the narrow ally that separated it from the other abandoned looking building of Gothams outskirts. He had managed to keep this place secret for so long he had even installed his own lock, the key neatly tucked under a 'Welcome' matt he thought amusing to have.

He entered the decrepit structure, met with a vast wall-less space, across from that another door with the same lock which led to a flight of steps leading down deep into the earth, leading to an underground storage room.

Their decent was fast, coming out finally into the hide out. The room was large lit by large mechanic lights that spread across the tall ceiling. He flicked them on and watched as one by one they revealed to him the storage room which spanned the entire length of the old factory, the other end shrouded by darkness in an impressive distance.

Inside were a number of things, most prominent would be vast crate's full off weapons. Guns, knifes, bombs, you name it he had dozens of them. The second an oddly huge jack-in-the-box, its head bent round the tall ceiling, its face slanted downwards, pushed in such a way as if it were watching him. The large prop bringing back memories of when he first started out, his antics nowhere near how thrilling they were today. It used to be all about the props you know, each escapade having a theme or a well rehearsed punchline.

He had lost his interest in that ages ago, instead evolving, if you will, into what he was now. His punchlines more twisted and extreme. As he passed all the other props, serving life sentences as ornaments rather than being put to some use, he smiled at the things he remembered about those times. He had become the Joker when he was surprisingly young, the remains of his youth a confused mess of knock knock jokes and puns. Now he was older, this Joker had a better show to put on, more unbelievable ideas. In the five years so far of being Joker he felt he was now heading in the right direction. That being no direction at all.

He walked past them, up to a purple arm chair, the back of the chair tall and curled. And as he sat down in his throne he thought about what he would do next, their being nothing else to do in a world where nothing really mattered. His brow creased and frowned with thought, his face contorting in all sort's of ways as he thought of some brilliant scheme only to discard it as pathetic or remembering he had already done it.

As time ticked away on the large Salvador Dali melting clock on the wall above him, a certain type of expression appeared on his face. His mouth and eyes both seeming to grin wickedly in unison. _Yes_, he thought as he peered round his Joker cave. _Yes!_

Suddenly he was up from his seat like a spring, excited and giddy, laughing as each thought and scenario seeped in and out of his brain, making room for an even more delicious one, that one too departing and in its place an even more evilly amusing idea. "YES!", He shouted as he pooled though the box's, looking for one very special item. This would be one of his most brilliant plans yet.

* * *

Ivory wiped the sweat from her forehead as she ran, the running machine she had bought a year ago finally being used. The night at the gallery had shown her she wasn't as fast as she thought, this being her attempt at changing that. She planned to get into much better physical condition despite her hatred of exercise and all things active. She endured the high speed setting for as long as she could, lasting almost an hour. But a stitch burned in her side and she slammed her hand down on the emergency stop.

She got off the machine, catching sight of herself in a full length mirror. She liked exercise for one thing and one thing only, an excuse to wear the many crop tops and shorts she had, Ivory not getting many opportunities to show off so much of her toned figure. She frowned at herself though, feeling a little disconnected from what she saw, as if it wasn't really her. She moved her hair from out of her eyes and smiled as best she could.

Suddenly it was as if the girl in the mirror was her, her smile creating a bridge in her brain between it and the person looking back at her.

"_You look better when you smile",_ The Jokers words echoed in her head. He was right, she did. At least she thought so.

He heart beat fast and she was massively out of breath, her face a red hue, her cheeks beyond flushed. She walked to the kitchen, turning on the tap, pouring herself a glass of water. But before the lovely cold alluring liquid touched her lips the phone rang. She signed putting down the glass and heading to the hall where the land line was.

"Hello", she said, picking up the receiver.

"Hello is this you Miss White", said a familiar voice.

"Yes"

"Its Bruce, Bruce Wayne". Ivory cringed inwardly. _Not this guy. _"We met briefly at the charity auction, remember". _Pfffftt hardly._

"Oh yes, I remember, your the guy who tried to pretend to have an opinion. Nice to hear from you". She said candidly.

"Everything all right?, you sound out of breath. Not caught you in a compromising position have I?",

"No, not at all",_ eww creep._

"Listen", he continued, "I heard about what happened last night at the gallery, about all the paintings I mean".

"We can make more, its what we artists do. We can replace what was stolen".

"Of course you can, I don't doubt that. I was actually ringing to say that since the Gotham gallery is owned by the Wayne foundation, I plan to pay the sum total of what was stolen to each of the owner's. Think of it as compensation".

"Wow, really. Thank you Mr Wayne that's very generous of you". _Please go away._

"Its the least I can do. I want it so none of you leave for another gallery due to the fact it may be closed for a few days. I know how that can be bad for business. But I assure you, once the police are done I've given the manager the go ahead to reopen as soon as possible". He stopped.

"What happened exactly?". She pretended not to know, her voice a note of innocence.

"Its hard to explain. Some serial killer broke in and well . . . we think someone's been killed. I've had my people try to get more information but that's all I know, the rests confidential apparently, police won't tell me a thing. Anyway", he said taking the conversation in a more positive direction, "I was wondering if you could help me out a little?".

_You want a hand getting that stick out your ass?, _"Sure, what with?", she said happily.

"Well, until the gallery opens you won't be able to display any works, so I wondered if you did repairs?".

_Your kidding me_, "Well no, not professionally, but I repaired some in the past". She said genuinely interested.

"It's just some of the picture in Wayne Manor are extremely old, the paint cracking in those vein like shape things", _Drying out, its drying out you buffoon._ "And so basically I was wondering If you'd come round and take a look for me, see what you can do? I'd pay you up front of course as I trust your probably the best person for the job", _damn right I am Mr Wayne._

"Of course I can, when's a good time for-"

"Today!", he butt in, "In fact right now if you can?".

She rolled her eye's, _why me._ "Okay, that's good for me too, I'll head over right away. I just need to pick some stuff up is all".

"Sure, sure", he said, "Perhaps you may also like to stay for dinner?", he added suddenly.

"Good bye Mr Wayne", she said quickly. _Absolutely not. _

She showered and got dressed quickly, throwing on a pair of generic black skinny jeans and a black and white chequered shirt. _Colour is for losers lol. _She tied her hair back into a tight ponytail, pulling a few strands of her fringe back down, hanging loosely. Grabbing her satchel she collected a bunch of oil paints, a bottle of white spirit, brushes, a fixing spray and a few other things.

She put on her black doc martins and hoodie as she got to the door and then she was off. Reluctantly on her way to Wayne Manor.

Bruce put his mobile down on the monitor, leaning back in his chair as he looked at the screen, massaging his temples with his thumbs as he thought what a dumb excuse he had made. As he did it displayed images of the grotesque sculpture Artist had left. The bodyguard had been literally hacked to pieces, the same wires and nails used to position him as were used in the Klark's murder.

The images were from different angles, small markers placed around it by the forensics team. He watched as the file downloaded from the GCPD database into the bat caves, the blue bar moving tortuously slowly. Alfred could be heard descending the winding steps, a tray in hand.

"Tea Master Bruce?", he placed it on the monitor.

"No thank you Alfred, I need to get changed into something more presentable, I'll have company soon". He stood up walking over to the operating area where his shirt was slung over the nearest chair.

"Company? The company of whom may I ask?", Alfred said, pouring his Master Tea anyway despite his declining.

"Ms White", the mention of her name made Alfred almost drop the tea pot.

"Female company sir? I thought you had an allergy to such social situations". His butler looked a little stunned.

"It's not what you think Alfred, she's coming to repair the older paintings in the Manor, she might even, if I manage to persuade her. Stay for dinner". That was all Alfred needed to hear, ceasing his tea pouring and picking up the tray again.

"I shall begin preparations immediately". He begun walking up the stairs once again.

"I said she might", he called after him, then looking at his watch, "Alfred it's only 1:15". Alas the Englishman was gone. _What on earth could he cook that would take four hours,_ he smiled to himself. His face straightening as he remembered the real motivation for his invitation.

_If I want to catch an artist, I'm going to have to think like an artist. And I only know one._

Batman had faced many foe's, all with different approaches to how they worked. Batman would always learn how to become better than his rivals. With Edward Nigma, he had worked to solve his riddles. With Two-Face, he had learned how to predict and prevent his philosophy of chance. With Bane he had trained so that he could push his body to its physical boundaries of strength and endurance. And with Artist he would learn how to think dramatically, to think as a creator would do, to see Gotham as a canvas and work out what her 'style', if that's what you can call it, actually was.

He had his doubt's that he would be able to. Alfred words from earlier that morning ringing in his ears.

"_You did think, but not like them because you aren't like them"._

True, but he had no choice, he couldn't think of any other course of action to take at the moment. He would search for the Joker and the Artist at night, but during the day he would try to understand, predict the pattern of violence as he had managed to do before. But this time he would get it quicker, he would be there waiting next time, not afterwards.

The cab pulled up and Ivory stepped out facing the large metal gate, a 'W', in the centre. Next to it on the wall was an intercom. She pressed the red button and soon she was greeted with a polite voice, "Greetings Ms White, Master Bruce is expecting you". Without being able to reply the gate opened an she begun her walk towards the house, across its lavish front garden, large trees and oaks peppering the space around the manor.

As she approached the door it opened immediately, an older man in his fifties standing smartly to the side as she entered. "Good day madam, may I take you coat?".

She looked at him a little funny, "Um . . no", she said, the man looking vaguely insulted. He recovered quickly coughing to break the tension.

"My name is Alfred Pennyworth, Mister Wayne's butler". He introduced himself.

Ivory smiled, " I'm Ivory White, Mister Wayne's _'vein like shape things' _fixer", she said quoting the billionaire from earlier.

"Pardon?", Alfred said confused.

"I'm here to fix the paintings", she explained. The older man gave her a funny look so she gave one back. "Your accents cool", she added, not really thinking, her thoughts not really coping with the demands of the social situation.

Alfred was caught off guard by the odd comment but snapped out of it, remembering his manners, "If you would like to follow me, Mr Wayne is waiting in the lounge for you". Ivory followed the butler into a room which was almost as big as her entire apartment. _These damn rich people. _She thought looking around herself. She'd heard that Wayne Manor was fancy, but not _this_ fancy..

"Ah!, Ms White", Bruce rose from his seat, dressed in a slick black suit. Alfred smartly turned and left, closing the door behind him to give them some privacy. "I'm glad you could come over at such short notice". He rose his hand to shake hers only to have it fist bumped.

"Cool, lets get started". She said getting right to the point. Bruce watched as she looked around the room at the many landscapes he had on canvas. "I see a theme", she raised a disapproving eyebrow.

Bruce watched as she looked around the room, obviously displeased, attempting to figure out what was so distasteful about them, to see what she saw. "Not a fan?", he asked raising an eyebrow of his own.

"Yes and no, it depends really" she cryptically replied.

_Well this is off to a good start_. Thought Bruce. He walked round in front of her, Ivory having wandered about to another part of the room, lost in her thoughts. As he did she looked at him suddenly as if she only just realised he was there. "Everything okay?"he asked her.

She crossed her arms indifferently, "Yeah".

"Well lets get started, the paintings that require attention are in the south wing, I'll show you over there". She followed him through the house, an awkward silence shared between them. Eventually Bruce felt as her host he should be the one to break it, chiselling away with a small comment for starters, "I hung up that painting of yours in my office by the way, really adds character to the room".

Her reply was a mere, "Cool". And then nothing.

"You really are quite talented, I compared the realistic style you used to some of the others I have and it far out weights them" he tried again.

Again all she said was, "Cool". He noticed she was looking around interestedly at the house as they passed through its many corridors and halls. "This place is massive, how is it you don't get lost all the time?". She asked peering round a corner.

"I've lived here all my life, as a kid I did though, all the time in fact. I relied heavily on Alfred's directions to guide me back to where I wanted to be. But as I grew up I finally got my bearings, now I know it like the back of my hand". As he said this Ivory pointed to a closed door.

"Okay then", she challenged, "What's behind that?".

Bruce looked at it realising he didn't actually have a clue. He had spend so little time in the manor lately, ever since he started being Batman he had practically lived in his cave. He mourned for the knowledge he possessed at a happier time in his life, realising it had been pushed out to make room for more useful things.

She looked back at him expectantly, her eyes devious and her lips smirking. He was glad to see she was finally talking to him, but had to disappoint. "Okay, okay, maybe I still don't know it that well", he admitted, Ivory smiling at his admittance.

"Thought as much", she said victoriously. She sauntered around him so that rather than following him she was walking beside him.

"Don't blame you, I don't even know my way around most of Gotham", she said, her maze like experience of the previous night coming back to her.

"When did you move here?" he asked watching her, her smile more welcoming than her many blank facial expressions which were now slowly returning.

"I've lived here all my life actually", she said a little embarrassed, "I don't know my way around that much because I never needed too. I spent most of my time alone in my room drawing. My fantasy's were always more important than my reality".

"Which was?", he asked now wondering if he'd actually find out anything more about her before she inevitably closed up.

She slowed a little, Bruce regretting asking that of her, fearing he may have unearthed something hurtful. Knowing this city that was more common than you would think. "It's complicated", was all she said.

"I understand", he replied, knowing that sometimes having to say stuff aloud made it seem to happen all over again.

Eventually they came to the south wing corridor, the oldest paintings in the house lining the walls. "Wow", she said, shocking Bruce after her harsh judgement of his other piece. "These are in some bad condition let me tell ya". He added, a little judgemental glance at the billionaire.

She walked down the corridor a little further, looking at them with great interest and amazement. "Tree sap", she stated. Bruce didn't get it.

"Tree sap?", he repeated, showing how little he knew about the works.

"Yup", she responded, "Some old paintings, not all, but most, have a thin layer of tree sap over them. It gives them a certain shine which is appealing while it lasts but eventually fades, causing the paint to flake and peal as it is here". She put her finger on the glass of the frame, pointing to one particular spot which was very badly damaged, "See. They stopped doing it when they realised what would happen. You won't find any painting's from the 1900's with this problem as they stopped somewhere around 1650. These aren't old paintings Mr Wayne, these are very very old paintings".

He watched her survey them, gathering research mentally as she looked trough them. It was like she respected them, because they were old, as if they were her elders in some way. "Can you repair them?",

She looked and smiled, "Mr Wayne", her eyes filled with humbleness, "It would be my honour". Bruce smiled back at her, pleased that she seemed so enthralled with the offer.

"Whatever is required in order to do so I'll pay for, just give me a heads up and I can have it by tomorrow". Ivory's heart leapt. All these amazing paintings to repair and whatever she needed at her disposal. _Oh my God its Christmas!._

"I'll make a list, I'll need to have a close look at each one to determine how it needs fixing and what it needs". She looked along the long corridor, this was going to be a lengthy job, but the longer the better. "Paintings you see Mr Wayne are like people", she said, approaching so that she was closer than she had been, as if this knowledge was somehow imparted with more personal eloquence, "If you care, do we not endure. If you damage us, do we not show our cracks".

He looked confused and she frowned, her smile instantly disappearing. She looked back at them and then at him, "It's always the delicate and refined that die, never the strong. You see beauty fades before brawn and there's nothing you can do but patch it up and hope that it will see another day", she moved closer, "Their fate is a doomed one but still they persist, their only real purpose to separate man from animals, to provide a mirror for our souls", her entire body was taken with the idea, her arms animated, her voice exhilarated, "And once, maybe a few times if your lucky, you'll find one. A painting which is strong and beautiful, that can stand times contentious decay and yet remain perfect. Even if not forever, just longer than the rest".

She was so close to him now, he looked down into her eyes, not really looking at him, but at a person who she was enlightening. He understood her passion now, perhaps enough to understand her too if he liked. She was smiling a beautiful smile again, waiting for him to respond, to show her that he got it, that he was intelligent enough to notice such a metaphor, unlike others she had probably failed to express herself too in the past.

He nodded, "I see now why you have such respect for these things,. Almost as if they were just elderly humans". He showed she had gotten trough to him.

"Exactly" she beamed. From her satchel she took out a note book and a pen. "I'll make a start evaluating them right away".

"I'll leave you too it Ms White", he said departing the corridor.

Ivory raised her head quickly to speak, "Call me Ivory", she said still smiling.

He smiled back genuinely, "Okay Ivory, you can call me Bruce". And with that he was gone leaving her to her work.

The time ticked away quickly, the sun lowering in the sky, creating a warm orange haze that leapt through the windows of Wayne Manor, covering Ivory where she sat on the long carpet. She had finally finished looking at each of the paintings, the entire corridors length taking her almost three hours. She sat cross legged with the note pad on one knee and her phone on the other, searching for the right items online and writing them down. Money appeared to be no object so she freely noted down what would be required.

As evening approached she made all manner of excuses not to say for dinner. Bruce had seemed a little put out, probably used to having woman throw themselves at him all the time. Ivory may be mad, but she wasn't that mad

As she opened the door to her apartment just in time to catch Alfred pulling away outside, she dropped her satchel and headed to her art studio, desperate to transform herself. She pulled on the costume and her mask, all her movement's fast and somewhat desperate. As if she couldn't bare to be Ivory for any longer than she needed to. Truly comfortable at last, like an unwelcome thorn had been pulled out of her, she left.

* * *

Bruce stared at the bat suit behind its glass, only able to make out the fine cuts and rips he had suffered at the hands of the Artist in its display like setting. The barrier disassociated Bruce from the bat suit, him finally feeling the worry and shock Alfred no doubt did every time he came back hurt. He looked over at the others, other versions which he how no longer used. They all had scars on them, momentous and kisses from fights, not all as dangerous as each other but still reminding him that his obsession may well be the end of him.

Pushing the keypad at the side the glass removed the boundary between Bruce and the suit, Bruce lightly running his fingers over the rip in the stomach. He felt a fool but also that he had learned that this city had a way of infecting everyone, even those who appear innocent. Artist was a rose with thorns it seemed, he would no let her escape again.

He changed, making his way over to the bat mobile, his thoughts unable to retract from the memory of that night. As the roof pulled down, cloaking him in the darkness, the red light of the screens barely reached his face as he took to steering wheel and drove off. His mission clear.


	12. Chapter Twelve: L'appel du vide

Chapter Twelve: L'appel du vide

Four days later . . .

The full force of the wind smashed the side of the building, the day time breeze thundering in her ears as she stood atop the Fourth Avenue Hotel. Artist leant over the edge, the toe tip of her boots just grazing the end of the roofs stone border. Though wind roared around her it did nothing to disguise the piercing sound of sirens, first dull in the distance, now approaching in a repetitive scream of red and blue.

Crimson dripped into the murky black of the drain that lined the road, a broken and contorted body smashed against the earth like a ragdoll, unnatural shape and horrific ascetic. _Pity,_ she thought as she looked down below her into the belly of the city, the scene gathering a considerable crowd., _that wasn't nearly as satisfying as I thought it would be_. She bit her lip and frowned. Lately it had been getting worse and worse, her actions failing to meet her souls loud demands, the monster hiding within her snapping and clawing at her to feed its insatiable fetish of violence. It wasn't enough any more, not this.

She looked around above the clouds and then below, down down down to the base of the skyscraper, the side walk littered with red. Bones splintered like wood, heads smashed like pumpkins. _So unoriginal_, she scolded herself as she looked on at her latest piece. _Your losing you touch. _Stepping down from the ledge, her body tense and yearning for something new.

As the screams of sirens became now unbearable to her fine tuned ear, she slipped away, police already arriving to investigate. She planned to introduce herself better this time, no more random killings in the quiet, no more hiding in the shadows. It was time to be bright, time to be bold. The news had been running the footage of her in the gallery all week, freeze frames which in Artist's opinion captured her best side. Now it was time to give them a live show, let them see her in the flesh, not through the pixalated haze of a security camera.

Throwing her hood up she walked through the hotels main door and passed the crowd of parasites lingering around the body. Reporters photographed it, police poked and prodded as they did, primates attempting to gather up what little their unintelligent brains could. And all completed with a chorus of '_What a pity'_, and '_what a waste_', by the many civilians that made up to Artist the blank background of Gotham.

Though through it all she smiled, her toys were uninteresting yes, but there were so many, still so many to play with.

As she passed a nearby television store, the wall of synchronised sets caught her eye, all of them switched to channel 5. The news reader, a rather plastic looking man was interviewing another much older man, the name _Dr Parker a_ppearing beneath him as he proceeded to answer the news anchors questions.

It all seemed very mundane and Artist started to walk off before hearing her name. She turned back quickly and pressed her nose to the glass of the shop as the older man, Dr Parker started to psycho analyse Artist. In her eyes, very demeaningly:

"_Its clear that this individual suffers from a very demented type of mind. She has shown herself to be weak and incapable of understanding common social behaviour. Judging from what she has done she is most likely the type of person who is extremely jealous, killing people she wishes she could be more like. In reality when the mask is removed she is probably a cleaner or secretary, someone without a life of their own who is trying to get some attention by adopting this new persona"._

She felt her fists clench so hard her long nails dug into her tense palms, when she noticed this she released them. _It's okay, its doesn't matter. _She breathed deeply and was able to think clearly. Beneath her baggy jacket she could feel her Shepherd. She put her hands in her pockets and clutched it tight as if it would somehow escape her it she didn't. She ran her hand along the barrel and smiled again, be it only slightly.

Now a feared and notorious criminal, she was going to exercise the perks of her new reputation. Trudging along the side walk, people nudged her out of their way, probably thinking she was some young thug. Which now that she realised it, is what she looked like as she caught her reflecting in a nearby window. She saw past the unflattering attire and wondered if they'd run screaming if they knew who lurked beneath. As she raised her head a little at her reflection she glimpsed her emotionless mask, its white pigment peeking from her raised hood. Truly a fearful sight. As a wolf in sheep's clothing she walked among them unknown. Funny how people can be so unobservant, caught up in their phone calls, their texts, idle chit chat and the daily bore of the commute to work. One out of place aspect, one new introduction to their routine going amiss, accepted and integrated into their life's like background noise.

Walking leisurely she arrived in Gotham central, a large empire of corporate towers and business blocks, stretching for miles. The dominating form and blue 'W' of Wayne industries rising above them, the king of the monopoly. Travelling through this labyrinth of capitalism she noticed a building that caused her mind to unravel into sick fantasy. A large exclamation mark in her head of what she should do today. They might as well have just painted a giant red arrow on it for her.

CHANELL 5 NEWS

AS IT HAPPENS, WHEN IT HAPPENS

The slanted letters of the green sign were just above its doors, various employees and others coming and going despite it being a weekend, the studio looking busy with an ocean of people shuffling in and out. She stared at the ark of ignorance and had a little flash memory of the news broadcast she had seen no less than a few minutes ago. Fresh anger boiled beneath her baggy exterior, a burn on her reputation seeming more painful than one on her physical body. And from deep inside her a small growl found its way to the surface of her innocent exterior.

Clear glass revealed the ground floor showing five or six security guards, each probably armed and standing in a variation of locations throughout the foyer. In her head she saw the logical option, if fact she saw six or seven logical options that would all work perfectly. There would no doubt be a back door, another way in which would allow her to avoid all attention, stealthier. But then there was this voice, getting louder and louder telling her to use the front door. It wasn't as loud as it could be but seemed to mimic the throb of her heart beat and the snapping of the beast.

Walking up to channel 5's door's she stopped, people still shuffling about like cattle around her. She relaxed, just standing for a bit, the calm before the storm. In the way of people she felt their barges and jolts, a grin spreading along her ruby red lips, each one edging her closer, each one goading her on to do it.

"_Do it, I dare you, I double dare you"._She smirked. Her toes touching the dark waters of the deep end, her nerves now numb, she felt as she did on the edge of the hotel, as if her soul was hanging in the balance. This is what she needed to do. She had set out today without a plan or purpose, only a vague idea. Now she had seen the way forward, and it was covered in the blood of every Gothamite this city held within her cold stone walls.

She shed her skin like the reptile she was, throwing away the bulky hindrance that was the jacket. She grabbed the belt holding the baggy jeans up and with one hard pull they dropped, her long pale smooth exposed legs stepping out of them, her black leather boots stretching to her knees. Her Shepherd in her hand. A Chameleon no longer blended with the background, but the centre piece.

Almost immediately faces turned to pure horror, the flock of sheep around her startled by her fireworks as they backed off. Some thought it was a hoax, others real. Those that saw it for what it was were able to escape the destructive swing of the Shepherd, if only for a few seconds as Artist emptied her clip around her.

She watched them run, the area soon deserted, alarms ringing in her ears. She didn't stick around, running though the buildings door's, coming face to face with security. They all pointed their gun's at her, acting like that was enough like that would stop her. _Fools. _Above them was a light, a large rectangular fancy one attached to the ceiling by four wires, hanging over the mahogany desk they were crouched behind to avoid her gun fire.

She smiled into her mask as she started to raise her hands in a surrendering pose, at the last moment as they eased, shooting the wires in quick succession. She had always been a good shot, quicker than most. But in this thrilling moment her senses had doubled, her excitement amplifying her action's times ten. The light fell and the men screamed, surely not all dead but maimed at least as the heavy structure crushed them, breaking and showering glass. There was a pool of quickly cooling blood oozing from behind the desk, a single hand flopping out into it after a few seconds. It twitched a little then stopped, Artist waiting for any sign of their retaliation.

_Thought not. _She smirked pulling glass from her snow coloured hair.

Shocked on lookers ran and hid, many of them blockading their offices, phoning the police, some taking their chance to run for the exit, met with another tyraid of bullets. The dull thuds of shrapnel hitting flesh filled the air, a red spray coating the glass of the ground floor of the channel 5 news tower. Artist laughed with pleasure at her work, sprinting over a turnstile and up the first flight of stairs. _Oh ,Mr producer, where are youuuuu? _She was going to cut the head of this snake of a network. _I mean seriously, 'a cleaner or a secretary'?. _No, she was an Artist.

* * *

Joker sat at the drivers seat of a large blue UPS van, next to him in the passenger seat a clown thug, his mask already on and his hands clutching an AK 47. In the back were five more, the same as at the gallery, still brandishing the bruises from their last encounter with the bat, the one right at the back still massaging a broken finger. "Got damn ass hole broken my trigger finger", the man grumbled to the other.

"Easy Joey, we gonna bring him down a peg or two for sure. Boss's new plan's a real firework show", one of them replied, pulling up his mask slightly to revel a black eye and broken nose.

The Joker, despite driving turned his head to the back and glared at the second thug, a small smile eventually crawling onto his lips. "Pardon?", The Joker inquired. The gang of criminals stopped and turned to look at him immediately, a chill down each of their spines.

"Uh boss?", the one up front with him interrupted. Joker then turned to glare at him instead with his toxic demonic eyes, poking holes in the thugs voice as he stammered. "Don't you wanna uh . . w-watch the road". The criminal immediately shuddered inwardly as the Jokers smile grew. The mad man pointed his finger like a shot into the air, exclaiming, "Ah yes, safety first, good on you Chuckles, good man!". He slammed his palm into his underlings shoulder, patting him roughly on the back. There was a sigh of relief from them all in their boss's reply, but quickly disappeared as the Joker leapt from his seat into the back, yelling back at Chuckles, "You take the wheel for a bit".

Fumbling in panic as the car violently swerved, the thug did as asked, managing to narrowly avoid the side of a building, the horns of the vehicles around them angrily beeping in an orchestra of anger. A drop of sweat dripped out the edge of Chuckles' mask as he gained control.

In the back, the atmosphere was resting on pins, the Joker having sat down lazily between the two men who had been talking. Removing his gloves he begun to pick the dirt from under his nails, not making eye contact with any of them. It remained like this until the Joker eventually spoke, "Well?", was all.

The first thug warily responded, "'Well' what boss?". The Joker didn't look at him and continued picking dirt.

"Well", he again spoke, "Are you going to repeat that crucifixion of a joke you made, or am I going to have to reach into you throat myself and find it". The Joker at last stared at him, flipping out a knife from the edge of his sleeve.

In a mess of words the thug apologised, "I'm sorry boss, I was just trying to lighten the mood you' know, I'm real sorry, God, I'll shut up I swear", his words seemed strangled. The Joker smiled and put away the knife much to the man's relief. It was then the Joker slapped him around the face a few times with his purple leather gloves, a hard smack cutting the air each time as the Joker very simply explained to him the error of his ways.

"I"

SMACK

"Make"

SMACK

"The"

SMACK

"Jokes"

SMACK

"Got it"

The thug was in shock and paralysed with fear and confusion as the Joker grabbed him by the mask strap, "You got that Mr Giggles?"

'Mr Giggles' nodding quickly. He knew what was good for his health. "Great, glad we cleared that up". Joker stood up and wiped the non-existent dust from his suit. He stood before Mr Giggles who sat just below the vans sliding door's handle. With no indication of intention, in a move bipolar in nature, Joker pulled the handle, sending the thug flying out the van and crashing into the road. As soon as he was there he was gone, the Joker leaning out the side of the van laughing manically.

"Its a fed-ex joke, you'll get it tomorrow". And with that he shut the door, turning to face the others. "Anyone else wanna ' lighten the mood'?". Understandably no one offered.

It wasn't long before they arrived at their destination, the loading bay under the channel 5 news tower in Gothams corporate district. They were all armed and ready. Joker sprang back into the drivers seat, pushing aside Chuckles, parking it in a back entrance to the television studio. A man with a clip board approached, staring at his papers approaching them unwittingly "Hey!, you got the wrong damn date, we don't got no new delivery until at least next month-". As he came to the window the Joker stuck a gun in his mouth, grinning down at him as he finally averted his eyes from his work.

"Manners, manners, manners my dear boy, I mean seriously". He let rip his laughter as he pulled the trigger, the man's head erupting over the side of the van. The thugs all jeered and high fived but felt a twinge of fear least he turn on them. He pulled in and out they came, one by one. One of the thugs was particularly strong, his black jacket stretched to its limits around his muscles. The second wasn't so much, the rest a little more. Each possessed a trait the Joker thought he might need, if they didn't he'd have killed them already, preferring as he did to work alone.

From the back Joker pulled out a metal briefcase, undoing its latches to reveal a bomb. "Set the egg timer boy's, it's time to make some omelets". The smaller of the five came forward and started the count down. 35:00, 34:59, 34:58, 34:57 . . .

"All set boss". Joker aimed his gun and shot the smaller man just as he turned back.

"OOOOooopsie!", the others said nothing despite the fact they were pissing their pants, "My mistake, looks like that's out bomb expert gone. Oh Well". He laughed again as he ran to the elevator that would take them up to the very top. He punched the up arrow and waited, the doors peeling apart and the Joker and his thugs stepped inside. "Going up" he giggled as he pressed the top floor, the doors shutting as he did. Cheesy elevator music played as the thugs did their best to press themselves into the elevators walls, escaping as much as they were able from the mad man whistling along with the headache inducing melody of their ascent.

* * *

Artists chest heaved and her eyes were wild, she climbed the many floors of the tower, up and up and up until through the windows of the offices she could see the city's skyline, the ground far below her. _I'd love to push people off of this one_, she mused, noting it's height that far out did that of the Fourth Avenue Hotel.

The tower now had a circle of police cars around it, armed officers arriving in bus loads. _OOOOhhhh fun!._Her giddy mind told her, _More toys to play with._ Each flight of stairs spurred her on, forty something in total. At last she came to the top, a single corridor with one door leading to the office of the channels network producer. Tasteless modern art adorned the wall, along with pictures of various news anchors, ranging from the monochrome 1950's to the coloured 2015's. A bronze bust was displayed near the top of the stairs, some old guy. She picked it up and threw it through the window and laughed, "woopsie" she mused at her redecorating.

She wasn't entirely sure why she was going to kill the network head, but it seemed like fun. It was merely a bonus that it would count for revenge against that ridiculous story they did on her. She pondered weather this had all been worth it to disembowel someone she had never met, but upon reflection she grinned._ Of course._

She begun to skip down the corridor gleefully like a child. There was an entrance to an elevator along the way, and as Artist skipped towards the producers office the metal doors slid open. From it emerged the Joker, a crazed twisted smile that put hers to shame. She was skipping so fast she almost fell over as she tried to stop before running into a thug that came out after him. But nope, fate also has a sense of humour and so she barrelled the thug over as her fast moving body collided with his.

She knelt up from the floor, having fallen in an indigent position and having hit her head quiet hard. As she did the thug shoved a gun in her face. "Crazy bitch!", he screamed on the verge of shooting her. Jokers gun smashed into the thugs face, his nose breaking under his clown mask and blood seeping from underneath it.

"How many times do I have to say it,? really how many times?. MANNERS!". Joker sounded angry, his crazed smile fading a little giving way for a different sort. He stared down at Artist kneeling on the floor before him, from down there he could see why Batman hesitated, she did look extremely innocent and vulnerable. Like she would bruise if you brushed her beautiful pale skin in the wrong way. He could see too the fear still present in her, the fear he had instilled upon there first meeting.

Artist looked up, the tall Joker even taller now she was kneeling. She still had her hand on her gun and thought about raising it, being a fast shot she just might manage to re-capture the moment the bat took away from her that night at the gallery. To kill the Joker.

Joker offered her a hand before she could draw, surprising her more than if he had just shot her right there. His grin was the devils and his eyes were wild. Was it a trick? Surely he'd throw her through the window, make a flailing helpless spider in the sink of her. But she cared not. She ventured to try, taking his purple gloved hand in hers and immediately feeling the force of being pulled from the floor. He was stronger than she had expected and felt like paper in the wind as she jolted upwards.

Once she was standing the Joker looked at her as if judging, searching even. She looked back in nervous anticipation.

"Tell me", he eventually asked, "what would you do to him exactly?". Jokers question was lost to the thugs who wondered what the hell he was talking about. But Artist knew, she knew he was talking about the network head.

"Well, I was going to throw him off the building, I've been practising for days". She said, her voice filling once more with excitement at her plan and the worry he may stand in her way of carrying it out. She needed this so badly.

The Joker laughed and brought his hand to his forehead running it over as he turned to his thugs, "You- you hear that", he struggled to say through his laughter, "Practising", he managed, "Practising!", he repeated. The more he though about it the more difficult it was to control himself. He couldn't have thought of a better reply. Images of this little kitten like fiend running about pushing people off buildings was both comedy and adorable to him.

Artist didn't know what he was going to do next, wondering if this was a good sign or not, she had heard he was unpredictable, but so was she and so she hoped that would give her more insight. He stopped still laughing a little, his smile now from ear to ear. "Well my dear", he said chuckling one last time, "Be my guest".

What harm could it do he thought, to let her have her fun. "There's plenty of producer to go round". He said as he turned and made his way to the door of the office. Behind it, gun's could be heard loading. "Looks like he has company". Joker said as he started to twist the door knob. He stopped and turned to her again suddenly, "Arty", he said pointing to her, "Come over here", he said curling his finger in front of his face, obscuring half his smilie.

Artist did as he asked, stepping over the thug she had run into who still lay on the floor clutching his bleeding nose, daring not to get up. She walked over to him, Joker leaning on the door. He didn't say anything but it was clear he wanted her to listen as he put his ear against the door, she did the same. What she heard was a noise she recognised immediately, the sound of a timer, ticking down. It was the kind she'd seen before once or twice that they fix to automatic mini guns. It usually lasts for a few seconds then lets off a sea of bullets, leaving hundreds of holes in everything in its path. Why the network head had one in his office was another story entirely. Perhaps he had been expecting Joker and had prepared, or maybe he was just paranoid or maybe he was in deep with the sharks and this was meant for someone else.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick . .

After listening for a few of them she felt Jokers hand push her forcefully away into the opposite wall. Her back hit it with a thud and she let out a startled yelp. Just as he pushed her he grabbed the handle of the door, pulling it back as the ticking stopped and a cloud of bullets came flooding the area.

They slammed into the thugs, tearing them apart, they had been watching but not listening and through the noises of the mini gun rapidly firing she could hear the Jokers laughter from the opposite side. She felt it welling up inside her and she let her own, higher pitched and involuntarily. Again enjoying herself. Her fear still real but hidden beneath her own amusement. This was the rush she had failed to feel earlier at the hotel.

After the gun had stopped he gave her a look that communicated perfectly what he wanted. Voices could be heard talking, whispers of confirmation as the rooms contents looked at the pile of hole punched thugs. They thought they had won until from behind the door came the figure of the Joker and the Artist. As they did they shot two black suited men through the chest, one of which who was standing by the mini gun, now slumped over it as he chocked for life. The network producer was crouching behind his desk, and as they always did around Joker, begun begging and offering money.

"Please", his voice laced with grief and desperation, "I'll give you anything you want, anything". He put his arm out in front of himself as the Joker approached. "I have money, lots of money. Please just don't do this!". It was no use. Joker went right up to him and kicked him in the face as he crouched, the hard sole of his shoe colliding with the producers cheek like an iron fist. Whimpering in the foetal position at the Jokers feet the man continued to plead. "What do you want?", he snivelled. Joker leapt and sat on the edge of the producers desk, swinging his legs. "Well lets see shall we. My face carved into mount Rushmore, my own sitcom, my face on the one hundred dollar bill, oh the list is endless", he laughed at the man's desperation, watching as he backed away as far as he could get from the lunatic.

"Please, I haven't done anything, ANYTHING", the network producer pined. As the man's fear increased so did Jokers mirth.

"Oh my dear-", Joker stopped and leaned over to look at the name plaque fixed to the front of the desk beside him, "Mr Descolay. Do you really think you can run so many horrible programmes and not receive a visit from me. I mean you hardly reply to my letters as it is. So I thought we should meet", he paused as he crouched down to look the man in the face, cocking his head to match the position of his, "face to face". The man shivered under the mad man's watch. "I mean all that stuff they say about me on the evening news, though I love the lime light, you and your little team really do know where to stick the boot in". Joker dug his heel into the man's side, cracking two of his ribs, the noise almost as loud as the producers scream.

Artist stood watching, wondering what sort of beef Joker had with this man. She knew hers and wondered if this was revenge for him or merely a whim. She made mental note of the large oak table and the weakness of the large glass windows which covered all the walls, thinking if Joker got off, how amusing it would be to push it through and crush a few of the police officers below. _Oh how delightful._

Joker turned to Artist and somehow read her thoughts, smiling the same smile she had hidden under her mask, only his was more manic somehow, the deep stitched cuts at the edges of his mouth exentuating all expression. She looked right back at him as his voice became darkly interested, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?".

She nodded speedily, going to the edge of the table on the opposite side, getting ready to push. Joker joined her but before she begun to push he practically flipped it by himself, breaking the glass and sending it plummeting downwards. Artist ran to the now empty window frame, its sides laced with sharp shards, just in time to see the table crush two armed officers, a rain of glass littering the panicked crowd. She looked down in gleefulness, doing a small clap with her hands. It was more perfect than she had envisioned, she became uncontrollably giddy as she saw them scatter like ants, regrouping amongst the chaos. She saw the officers entering the building and tuned to tell the Joker who was already leaning down in the face of the producer yet again.

"We have guests", she said in a tone the Joker thought he'd never hear in another person, the sound of violent excitement. The way she sounded pleased at their presence telling him he had been right not to strangle her. Joker smiled.

"I know another way out, plus I have a surprise for them". He had a twisted glint in his eye and Artist wondered what he meant. "So. You still want to be the one to push him?", he asked her, as if he were asking her to dance. She couldn't handle herself or even begin to have composure.

"Hell yeah!", she said, her hands in little fists as she contained herself as much as she was able. Joker watched her in her struggle, finding her somewhat adorable in her blood thirty state. He grinned at the producer who had obviously convulsed upon hearing the psychopaths plan.

"They just get crazier every day", he leant down into the other man's face. "But no one out crazies Joker". He pulled out a knife and placed it in the man's mouth. Artist watched and found herself complaining at the seemingly sudden change of plan.

"Hey, you said I could push him!", she sounded upset, Joker turning to her reassuring her with another smile, but somehow frowning with his eyebrows, daring her to challenge him. She didn't.

"And we will", she felt better after hearing that, "But you have to sign your piece's don't you my dear". He turned back to the producer and with a glorious sound begun carving a smile into the man's flesh. The producer scratched at the Jokers chest, face and arms as the knife glided though his skin, slicing nerves and cutting through tendons, the pain unbearable and tears streaming down his face. Once he was finished he pulled the man up by his collar, holding him in front of him and letting him go.

The producer stood wobbly, murmuring to himself still. "Please please please please please". Through his raw and burning face. Joker gave Artist a proud look, the blood of the producers smile running down his chest, leaking from his jaw.

"Waddaya think Arty?, how 'bout it?", Joker said as he discarded his knife on the floor, pulling his gun out once again and pointing it at the man's back. "This is my kinda fun".

Artist approached the poor producer like a critic, resting one elbow on her crossed arm and her hand on her chin, a finger extended as she admired his style. It was gory but not so much that the man would die. It was more likely that he'd live and be traumatised forever both mentally and physically. She gave a thumbs up to Joker for his genius, the idea of walking art better than dead art. The things this guy could teach her.

The clown dug the barrel of the gun into the back of the producers neck. "Walk", he said silently and snake like in the shivering man's ear. The producer was still pleading, still begging.

"Please, please, please, please", uncontrollably silently sobbing and jolting. Tears and blood mixing as Joker dug the barrel further and again repeated himself.

"Walk". This time deadlier. It made the man's very soul combust with terror as he took small steps towards the broken window ledge, like a gaping hoe of glass teeth.

Artist walked towards Joker who moved out the way. She happily took his place. She traced a gentle finger along the shoulders of the shivering man, almost calming him in a way, she seemed less violent to the producer, not like Joker who had disfigured him so badly. Artist stood just behind the man, now silent, no longer pleading. Just when he thought Artist had taken pity on him he felt the sudden jolt of pressure behind his back, propelling him forward and out of the window. Joker and Artist heard the man's wind strangled screams as he plummeted, followed soon after by a satisfying noise of wet meat, and bones snapping.

Joker couldn't handle it, his warped mind couldn't handle it as he again let rip with laughter. This was too good, far too good to be real. He was hallucinating, he had to be. As he laughed his eyes never left Artist, he watched her look down at her evil deed and a thin string holding back his more violent insanity snapped inside him.

Artist turned and looked back as Joker came at her and lifted her up by her collars, swinging her out the window and glaring right into the mask she wore. He didn't need to see her face this time to know she was scared. He could feel it. She didn't struggle despite the fear, waiting for him to do it, to drop her, her life continuing once again his decision. His grip on her jacker increased and she felt the pressure of his balled fist's in the fabric and he rolled it tightly.

Artist spread her arms out wide, not holding onto his wrist this time, not holding on for the ride but instead standing back to admire it. She looked at Joker for the first time properly. Not at his appearance but at him. She could see herself a little, the compulsion, the chaos.

She could hear it below her, the sound of the shocked crowds, their audience as they watched as one psychopath held the other out the window. Some gasped, some jeered, some even chanted. "drop, drop, drop". But Artist couldn't tell if it was the crowd or her own insanity. To her the chanting was the call of the void, the desire to drop, to be dropped and fall. She thought of the little spider being washed down the sink, panicking and afraid. But there always came a time when the spider curled up into a ball in acceptance, knowing they would drown. She felt herself curling, understanding.

Joker watched her, one single mere movement from ending her. But he couldn't, as he couldn't before. He wouldn't allow himself to. Whatever had stopped him the first time was stopping him this time as well. His hand shook as did the rest of him as voices cried-

"_Drop!"_

And other voices cried

"_No!"_

"But what do I think, does that ever matter?", he suddenly yelled at himself. Artist watched him, knowing full well he wasn't talking to her but something inside him, something heavily insane, beyond whatever it was she herself was facing.

Joker seethed, his smile long gone, a pained and angry expression now lingering on his face. He heard no voices, only roars of laughter in his head as his grip on her because more and more tighter, his gloves scrunching in the materiel of her jacket. The voices were all laughing at him this time, not with him or at others, at him. This happened rarely and only when they knew he was about to do something that would make him the punchline to this joke. They were a warning, becoming louder the tighter he gripped. He knew he had to kill her.

"_I like sly, I don't kill sly"_

What did that even mean, God his head hurt from the laughter, a billion things racing through it.

"_Creative enough for you?". It wasn't a question. She pointed the gun under her neck.._

He was seeing things, if he wasn't careful they'd both fall, if he didn't keep it together.

_SPLIT!, was the resounding noise as he broke it in half with one easy gesture, bending it back with both hands as splinters reared back from the black, revealing the pale wood underneath._

He couldn't shake the image of the breaking paintbrush from his head, seeing it even as he shut his eyes tight. He stared up at her and down at the crowd of people who had ceased their chanting and were watching with baited breath. How long had he been having an episode for. He looked back at the Artist, un-interrupting and arms still spread out like some porcelain angel, ready for her fate. Why was this so difficult.

He pulled her back in and lowered her slowly, not letting go of her, just putting her down on the edge where he had been standing. Below he heard the crowd let out their sighs of relief, some complaining having wanted him to let her go upset at the lack of a free show, others sighing with relief.

She was afraid, but calm, her body numb all over as she waited, something she had been doing a lot of lately. She had been waiting for him to determine her fate more than once now and she was becoming sick of it.

_Do away with me or not Joker, I have no time for indecisive clowns. _

He let go, leaving a permanent scrunch in her lapels. He stared at her, through the mask and leant down so he could be eye level with her. "Say", he said, barely a whisper, not amused or upset but blank, a rarity for him, "Do you think it would be possible to get out of this building in three minutes and twenty one seconds". His smile returning with full force.

Artists eyes widened as she finally picked up what he was alluding too. _You crazy fucker._

She looked at him and then to the door. "Last one to get down's a splattered Descolay". She sprinted away from him, Joker setting off after her. As the passed the corpses of the thugs they heard the elevator coming up, getting down the first flight of stairs just as the doors opened and S.W.A.T entered the top floor. All they saw when they looked down the stair rail was a flash of purple tail coat chasing a flash of black.

2:11

Artist was gonna win this race if it was the last thing she did. To hell with it. Even if the building did blow up, all she wanted was for them to find her corpse further along than his.

2:04

Joker saw her just in front and overtook her easily, running much faster than she could. All Artist seeing was a purple and green blur as she heard the S.W.A.T team above her bounding down after them.

1:42

They came to the last flight of stairs, Joker turned to see Artist only just starting at the top of them, smiling as he knew he'd win. He could out run Batman, so of course Artist was no challenge at all.

1:22.

He came to a fire exist that came out into the studios loading doc, pushing it open and setting off its alarm. It didn't matter though, the building had multiple alarms going off by this point and it faded into them, a mere flute in the orchestra.

1:07

He turned a waited impatiently.

1:03

He still waited impatiently.

0:59

He still waited impatiently.

0:54

Just then Artist came running down the stairs, surprised he had waited instead of just leaving and saving his own skin. As she approached he pulled her in his direction by her shoulder, both of them entering into the loading doc, filled with cars and trucks, the UPS van with the bomb only metres away at this point.

0:37

Artist panicked, she didn't think they had enough time to escape, preparing for the end. Joker on the other hand reached into the pocket of his purple trench coat and retrieved a pair of key's.

Artist looked at him confused, "Where the fuck did you get them?!", she demanded. Joker shot her a smirk.

"Seriously, there's a bomb over there and you want to have another conversation about slight of hand". Artist shut up and followed him to where the producer parked his car, his name in gold above his parking space, a lovely flash BMW which was now going to be seriously smashed up by their escape, if the bomb didn't go off first that is.

0:09

They got in and Artist wondered why Joker didn't just drive the fuck away. "Go!", she yelled at him. All he did was lean on his side of the seat and tut.

0:05

"Seat belt", he said sternly but a smile betrayed him.

0:04

"Seriously dude?!", she said utterly shocked.

0:03

"Just kidding!", he said slamming his foot down on the accelerator as they pulled away, out of the entrance of the loading doc. As the car emerged up the ramp the police immediately begun to shoot.

0:02

Joker laughed as Artist pulled out her gun to shoot back. _Adorable_ he again thought.

0:00

As they drove away from the building, ten or so police cars slamming on their sirens and perusing them, the last three at the back were tipped by the violent jolt of the explosion. All at once windows shattered into a cloud of razors, the structure creaking as the base erupted beneath it, creating a small earthquake around the area. The crowd looked on in horror as the building collapsed, rubble spitting out everywhere into the line of officers which had surrounded it. The channel 5 news tower had been completely erased form the Gotham skyline, the S.W.A.T team inside along with it. The dust of the explosion rose into the air, the crowd and officers choking in the thick fog off it. The only light to pierce it, that of the colourful fireworks that had erupted from the surrounding buildings of the corporate district, shooting into the air and raining droplets of tinted fire, predominantly green and purple, exploding into large smiles across the sky.

One crudely erupting with the word 'BANG!"

* * *

Okay so yeah, long chapter but I haven't updated in a while. Next chapter will be a little more uh . . . touchy feely ;) If you know what I mean. Reviews appreciated very much.


	13. Chapter Thirteen: The Spider And The Fly

Chapter Thirteen: The Spider And The Fly

Fireworks exploded in the distance, the eruption of the channel 5 news tower had subsided and the cloud of dust and rubble was lowering and settling, but only occupied a small distant space in the rear view mirror of the BMW as Joker pushed hard on the gas pedal, screeching away from the remaining police cars giving chase. Their laughter would have been sealed in the metal container if not for the window open on Artists side. She leaned out emptying clip after clip, not really caring what she hit.

An innocent bystander, the police, their tires, all was good. Her laugh was higher pitched, like a child at Christmas as she again reached into her pockets for more ammo. Her face dropped to a sad expression when she realised she was out, running her hand around the lining of her pocket quickly to make sure, but still disappointment.

Joker noticed this, but didn't share her disappointment at all, tutting and waving a finger, "Well kid, shouldn't have wasted it all at once". Artist shot him a glare, but Joker didn't show any sign of being intimidated or phased, instead growing more daring in his driving as he mounted the curb, hitting multiple people. Artist watched as bodies rolled up over the wind shield and thudded onto the floor far behind them. The Joker only chortled, "my bad".

Running in manic frenzy the civilians around them jumped aside, grabbing their loved one's and trying their best to move before getting hit by the pairs get away car. Joker, eyebrows lowering grinned with his teeth as he swerved the car deliberately to hit a young couple who had just moved out of their way, the two gasping as the BMW slammed into them at high speed. "Two for one", he yelled back as he turned his head. He felt utterly carefree despite his predicament. He shot a glance at Artist who sat, legs up on the dashboard, head out the window waving at the police chasing them, not caring for the bullets that were almost hitting her.

Speeding up, they approached a junction, the cars in their lane stopping at the red light to let the other cars through. Joker focused his eyes as he swerved the car between both lanes so that he was on the white strip of the centre. The sides of the car scratched along those that now walled it in, with a terrible scraping like a nail on a chalk board. A blur of passing cars lay ahead of them, the traffic from the other side now a death trap of moving vehicles. The police had abandoned their chase, daring not to follow, watching as the two assailants came closer and closer to the impossible route through the junction.

"Are you serious?", Artist screamed, both with shock and excitement.

"Darling", he smirked, "I'm always serious". With that he practically crushed the gas as the car shot out into the moving junction, the moving vehicles around them stopping in a panic, the first of the moving lanes causing a massive pile up as the driver at the front slammed on the breaks as the BMW came into view. Artist let out a cheer as they came into the fourth lane, narrowly making it through the minor gap of two passing cars.

"WOOOO!", she screamed as Joker deliberately slowed so that they could watch the chaos in the rear view mirror for a little longer. Behind the symphony of horns and crashes sang to them as they disappeared away from the police who were now all over the crash site, pulling people from the burning wreckage of the pile up after a lorry exploded upon collision. The pair were home free as they drove on still, gaining ground.

"I wanna drive", Artist said as she grabbed Jokers shoulder, like a small child asking for a cookie. Joker took his eye off the road to stare in her masked face. Smiling he took one hand off the wheel, pulling her into his lap with his arm quickly. Once on he grabbed her hand and placed it on the wheel, taking his other off so that she was now steering. "Whatever you say", he yelled above the sound of the wind passing the open windows.

Artist drove even more crazily than Joker, swerving all over the road like it was covered in oil. She could feel his surprisingly violent convulsions of laughter beneath her as she almost crashed into everything in her path, eventually hitting a turn in the curb which sent the car flying into the air, hitting the road with some force and continuing on, both psychopaths still pretty fearless in their endeavours. She leaned back into him as she slowed a little, driving much more sensibly, the lack of danger snapping Joker back to reality as he felt her cosy up to him.

Artist kept her eyes on the road and relaxed slightly, feeling something she hadn't felt much at all lately. Comfort. It was odd, an understatement yes, but there was something about Joker that made her feel at ease, despite the whole strangling thing and all that business of almost being thrown out a window earlier. She mentally slapped herself and again leant up from him, speeding up also to disguise her discretion, wondering weather or not that was a wise move and if Joker had noticed it. He had.

Just as soon as she had leant back up, Joker wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back, holding her there, not forcefully, but well enough that she couldn't move away. She kept driving and didn't look at him, thinking he was playing some cruel game with her. While awaiting some attack or snide comment she felt the back of Jokers gloved hand brush the side of her neck just under her ear, she jumped and felt Joker laugh, but heard nothing until he darkly whispered in her ear, taking her by surprise. "Don't stick you fingers in the Venus fly trap pumpkin, it bites".

Tightening his grip he again brushed her neck a little harder, the comfort he had brought her diminishing slightly as he roughly ran the back of his hand down the length of her neck until he reached her shoulder. "Such a pretty little fly", he added.

Artist didn't really think ahead, elbowing him in the rib harder than intended. Joker sucked in air as he felt the sharp pain, but only laughed loudly into her ear, his grip around her losing. Though Artist didn't look at his face she could tell he was smiling.

She made a turn and was about to suggest pulling over, their car no doubt being tracked, when they heard the sound of a louder engine behind them. Joker's eyes met the rear view mirror and his heart leapt with joy as he saw the black form of the batmobile, gaining on them with great speed. Thinking nothing off it he shoved Artist into the passenger seat forcefully and again took control of the wheel.

* * *

Bruce felt the adrenaline pulsating through his veins as he hit the gas pedal, the sound of lightning bursting from the engines of the tank like vehicle as if followed in fast pursuit. He gripped the wheel, feeling the sweat of his hands against the hard leather as he made quick, nimble movements, avoiding the carnage that the BMW was leaving behind it.

He had seen the explosion of the channel 5 news tower from the board room at Wayne Tech, Luscious Fox, barging into the meeting, with no words to offer but a stern and shaken expression. Bruce had read his mind as he got up from the head of the table, shaking of his lazy playboy façade and heading to the secret bat cave under the enterprises building to don the cowl of the Batman. It was lucky Fox had a few of the batmobile prototypes lying around, probably aware that his department was more the billionaire's storage cupboard than anything else.

* * *

"Now may be a good time to fasten your seat belt", Joker winked at Artist and she scowled under her mask as she did as he asked. The increase in speed glued her to her seat as she found it hard to move forward from the force of the air coming in through the windows next to her and the bullet holes in the windscreen. "Please keep you arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times", he joked as he turned off the road and shot down an alleyway, hitting a dumpster and sending garbage flying over them and into the bat mobiles windshields. They both laughed at that as the BMW turned and drove across another road and into another ally, this one barely having enough room for the vehicle.

As soon as they entered it so did the batmobile, its jet like engines roaring above the wind and rocketing towards the less advanced car. Batsy was almost on top of them, the BMW turning and breaking through the gates of a children's playground.

Parents and children's screams came from all angles as the car smashed through a roundabout and then some swings, avoiding the monkey bars by mere centre metres, a stunned kid paralysed by shock as the terrifying face of the Joker passed him in the car, time slowing for him as the clown smiled back at the boy, tipping an imaginary hat.

Batsy was nowhere to be seen as the BMW exited the playground through another gate, Joker now driving over what looked like some kind of public square. Just as they reached another road the batmobile zoomed into view of the cars mirrors, perusing them again with full force.

"This guys good", Artist said, sounding genuinely impressed with the blundering bat. Joker stopped smiling and looked annoyed despite clear signs of his enjoyment. "Hey", she continued, "Credit where credits due", she reasoned. Joker tutted, obviously displeased with batsy's unusual zeal. A trick like that tended to get him off the hook, now it seemed it had spurred the bat on even more.

"So that's how you wanna play this one bat's, fine have it your way". Joker violently turned the wheel, spinning the car full circle and sending Artist flying into the side of the door, her hands luckily out in front of her to cushion the slam. As she regained her awareness, she realised Joker had stopped the car, facing the batmobile that was shooting towards them like speeding bullet.

"Um", she said confused and worried. Joker ignored her, focusing his eyes on the approaching bat, narrowing them and grinning ear to ear. The batmobile got closer and as it did Joker pushed on the gas speeding in the opposite direction, the batmobile continuing in the other, and as it too turned to follow the BMW, the Joker reversed off the road and through the barrier to a multi-story car park. As the car disappeared into the car parks entrance, Batman turned and followed, determined to track the two down.

Once inside the Joker pulled the car off into the third story, turning a few corners and then stopping. "What are you doing?", Artist whispered loudly in frustration. Joker turned to her and grabbed the bottom of her face, squeezing her jaw under her mask and brining his face closer to hers.

"Shut up and follow me or get beat up by the bat, your choice", he said venomously to her, letting her go as he undid his seat belt and quickly got out the car. Artist watched as he ran and slipped between two cars, leaving her sight. She waited there for a second, biting her lip and cursing herself as she too did the same, "God dammit", she whispered under her breath as she followed where he had gone, slipping between the same two cars. Once there she saw nothing, scolding herself for not just doing as he told her immediately.

Now on her own she crouched and moved about a little, she could hear the batmobiles engine as it pulled into the same level as they had, no doubt seeing the BMW and now searching the area for them. _Damn clown,_ she thought as she tried to make as little noise as possible. She sprinted across an empty space and again hid in the crowd of cars.

Catching sight of the batmobile she froze immediately, watching the tires turn slowly as the batman surveyed the area. She got lower and crawled on her hands and knees under the car she was closest too. It was a lucky manoeuvre as the batmobile then stopped, the top opening and the dark knight flying out. He looked different during the day, more bizarre without his shadows to hide in, the armour like nature of his suit clearer, the sculpted details of his mask subtle yet visible in the light, the notorious bat symbol now on show, unhidden by the night. It was a little like holding a flash light to the monster under the bed. He was still intimidating as hell though.

Artist held in her breath, trying to calm herself as she watched him, standing a only a few metres away from her. He didn't move, but his head turned and eventually, to her relief he walked off in the opposite direction to where she was hiding. She released the air in her lungs, a gratified sigh as she watched him get further and further away from where she lay. After a minute or so she decided to continue on, now knowing where the bat was would work to her advantage. She just needed to find the exit.

Beginning to move quietly and cautiously she begun to shuffle out from underneath the car, back out into the open, once again crotched she moved fast, keeping to the opposite side she had seen the bat head towards. _Sucker, _she smiled. After a few minutes she became annoyed, no exit visible but the entrance her and the Joker had driven through and that was way behind her and meant she would be totally visible to the bat who, being that tall would no doubt see her. All she needed was a fire escape or a back door to slip through, hopefully without any alarms or crap like that.

Her pondering was interrupted by a hand covering her mouth and a arm wrapping round her body that incapacitated her. She shrieked into the hand and was muffled by the force of its clamp like grip. She struggled and tried to kick but stopped when she felt the familiar jolts of silenced laughter in her assailant. "Glad you decided to follow little fly", Jokers cruel voice whispered.

Artist turned and Joker let her go as she spun to stare at him angrily, "Awwww, did I scare ya", he whispered mockingly, cocking his head and grinning slyly. She wanted to slap him but that would make too much noise, instead she turned and begun to walk away from him. As she did he grabbed her wrist and again pulled her.

"What?", she spat. Joker still grinned.

"Don't you wanna know where the exit is?", he said, his grip tightening. Artist shoved him but it did little, barely knocking him. He loomed over her and she eventually gave in to his game.

"Yes", she mumbled, rolling her eyes. Joker then quickly started towards the exit, forgetting he had Artists wrist, dragging her along behind him faster than she could move, leaving her out of breath and even angrier than before. _Stupid clown._

Weaving in and out of the maze of cars, she followed him until eventually they came to an open door, a stairwell beneath it. Artist smiled as she saw the way out and begun to optimistically sprint, almost matching Jokers speed, but not enough for his grip to loosen. Once past the door, both of them made sure to tread lightly, lest the bat hear them now.

The trip was short, them having only been on the third level, the door at the bottom leading out into a smaller car park of a shopping mall. Still he dragged her, like a kid carries the hand of his stuffed teddy. Not many people were about, the car chase having scared people off, if not that then the sight of the Joker certainly had. They ran like this for about an hour until they were well away from the multi-story car park, now walking at a steady speed through some lower levels of Gotham, where there were a bunch of old factory buildings. Artist had escaped the Batman, but she was still in the grasp of an even more dangerous foe and she knew it.

Eventually, when sick of Jokers grip she stopped almost falling over when he didn't. "Hey wait", she moaned. He turned to her and stared at her wrist, but not letting go much to her disappointment. "You wanna let go now maybe", it wasn't a request and Joker knew it.

"And why would I do that?", he pushed her. She scowled but said nothing as he again pulled her along. They came to an older building, crumbling and rotting from the outside. Joker dragged her to the small door at the side and beyond that through the other double doors and down the long staircase. He was certain they had lost the bat and felt no worry in returning to his hide out, especially now he had a far more interesting play mate.

Only when they reached the end of the stairs did Joker finally release Artist. "Finally", she complained, brushing the quickly forming bruises on her arm. The darkened area was even more intense on her pale skin tone than it would have been on anyone else and she flinched as she touched them, the marks far more painful than they looked.

The room was dark, and cold and smelled of strong chemicals and paint, she figured it was still in use until Joker turned on the lights, illuminating his lair. The bright rays only created a dim hue in the extensive space, but it was enough, the far off dark corners ominous yet uninteresting.

The first thing to catch her eye was the giant jack in the box puppet, it's head crookedly positioned as it hit the ceiling, staring down at her. After looking around a little more it was clear he'd been set up here for a while, judging by the extensive armoury like collection of box's lying about everywhere. And the fact that when Ivory was sixteen she distinctly remembered watching a news report that showed pictures of that same Jack in the box from one of Joker's earlier crimes. Back then she'd never have imagined she'd ever see it in person.

Cold air ran up her spine, the whole room feeling like an industrial freezer. The large cement bricks walling in the icy temperature as they resided deep underground. Artist wrapped her arms around herself, her upper body shivering despite her long insulating coat, her legs much worse. She tried to push the feeling to the back of her mind.

Impressed with the collection of props and arsenal she still considered fleeing, but was far too intrigued to depart. She didn't notice the Joker standing next to her at all until he spoke. "I call him Brian", he mentioned, creating light conversation when he noticed her gaze darting about the old metal contraption.

"Brian?", she repeated sceptically.

Joker stopped smiling, "What's wrong with the name Brian?, perfectly good one it you ask me". He protested, folding his arms at her and still grinning in the dim light.

Artist giggled, "Never heard of a Brian in a box before", she argued again, more teasing this time. She stared up at the ridiculous object for a little longer, taking in its magnitude and wondering how he even got it down here in the first place.

"With great difficulty", he said, replying to what she was thinking. Artist hated that he could do that. Joker had removed his jacket and stood in his waist coat and shirt, one arm resting on the other. He too watched the Brian in a box, neither of them really saying anything. Artist wondered why anyone would take off a layer of clothing down here, given its Arctic like climate, but Joker didn't look bothered at all, making Artist look like a wimp for shivering so much.

She breathed out air and watched as if formed a little cloud of heat, quickly dispersing among the cold. She did it again watching it fade away once more. "Are you going to kill me now?", she asked, half annoyed and half generally wanting to know. Joker turned to her and smiled amused by her bluntness.

"Perhaps", he said, Artist displeased with his vague reply. She wasn't settling for that at all.

"Look clown", she begun rudely, "I've had enough of you messing with me, if your going to kill me then kill me, if not then stop dicking around", She took a step closer to him. She had built up a wall of confidence which the Joker knew all too well how to bring down. He waited a little, mainly so she could again realise the size difference between the two of them, again notice than in a physical fight she didn't stand a chance.

She did, but that didn't change anything, she still faced off with him, clearly showing no signs of backing down. He liked that, not many people had that much balls, except for the bat, but Artist was so much more weaker that it made her seem even braver. He finally gave her his answer.

"No I'm not", he declared raising his animated eyebrows and smirking. He stepped up to her and took hold of her bruised wrist, lightly brushing his fingers over the bruises he had made, dark on her porcelain skin. Artist flinched away but gave in, not wanting him to grab her any harder than he was. He smiled as he felt her shudder and shiver underneath him, not from pain, but from the anticipation of it, the expectation. But to Artist's surprise Joker didn't press any harder, continuing to trace gentle circles. She felt sick in her stomach from whatever trick he was playing on her, luring her into a sense of security only to inevitably pull the rug from under her.

She considered yanking herself away but he was faster than her and would no doubt grip her tighter before she could make a run for it. And even if he didn't the door was locked and again he would probably capture her. He was right, she was a fly, and that made him the spider and this his web which she had been lured into. It was quiet in the hideout and in that silence she could hear the sound of her fast breathing, certain that he could hear it too, her nervousness taking over.

She did not fear him, that much was true, but he did have a way of making her uneasy, a way of exploiting her more vulnerable nature, which unluckily for her was her physical state. Her mind was strong, almost as messed up as his. Almost. But she was a frail thing to him, so easily breakable, so easily hurt. He continued to circle the bruises, letting go only to undo Artists mask.

When realising what he was going to do she protested and grabbed his arms as he reached to remove it. Only laughing at her attempts to stop him as he brushed her away like the wind, "What, it's not like I haven't already seen your face before dear", he reasoned, forcing it off to revel her pretty little face and big blue eyes. He tossed the mask on top of some nearby box's, not taking his gaze off Ivory, who glared back at him in annoyance, her mouth in a clear frown.

"You know if I was the same size as you, you'd be in real-", She begun to threaten, stopped by the Joker stepping right up to her and again grabbing her bruised wrist, this time pressing a little harder. She shook more now, but not from the cold as he used his other hand to sweep her fringe from her face, rolling his hand through her hair for longer than Artist would have liked him too.

"You'd what hmm?", he mocked, repeating the action. Artist said nothing, realising that defiance was no use, but frustrated in how easily Joker could bully her. Intimidation was a skill, and he certainly had it mastered. "Such a pretty little fly", he said to her again as his gaze shifted from her eyes to his hand as he watched her wavy white strands of hair slip through his finger as he stroked her mane.

Artist shivered again from the cold, her wrist being able to move a little, telling her Joker had loosened his hold and was now seemingly transfixed on her hair. She looked up at him as he looked down at it, a subtle smile playing on his lips, different from the usual 'in your face kind', a little like his face was resting and this smile was more permanent. In his dazed state she took the chance to get a real look at him, especially the scars on either side of his cheeks witch lined the infamous Jack-o-lantern smile of his.

Once Joker felt he had sufficiently lured Artist into a sense of false security he yanked her hair, not too hard, but enough to make her jump. His smile again took on a life of its own as he grabbed the fist which Artist had made and attempted to punch him with. It hit his palm like a sand bag and Joker laughed in her face, her angry frown only making it more difficult to stop.

Artist, not liking her part in this spider and fly scenario decided she'd had enough of being powerless and kicked out at him, aiming for his crotch but missing, Joker wrapping his hand around her leg, resting it under her knee, bringing her into a position which would make most mother's faint to see their daughters in.

Now pressed up against him with her leg wrapped round his she saw another chance to hit out at him, elbowing him in the chin, this worked but only made him laugh, despite all the force she had used. She did it again, Joker seemingly letting her, showing no sign of pain or displeasure, in fact it was quiet the opposite, he seemed to relish being hit, as if it amused him. And the more she did it the more his mirth grew. Eventually she stopped and watched him laugh, still not letting her go, one hand on her leg, the other wrapped around her waist in a caging lock.

A really wacky thought came into her head and she dismissed it, only to have it come flying back to her when all other options seemed less plausible. She cursed herself, but soon found herself smiling too, almost uncontrollably, genuinely amused too. Joker snapped his head down to look at her, his expression turning to confusion as she looked up at him smiling _his _smile. He was about to poke fun at her when all of a sudden she leaned up and placed her lips over his, closing her eyes and leaning into him, Joker no longer needing to hold her there as she stayed there by herself now.

His eyes were wide in confusion and he felt her smile even more, familiar with that contortion of the lips, no doubt aware of her effect on him. He kissed her rougher, Artist having started softly leaving him to reply to her first move, like a game of chess, but much more thrilling. When Artist felt this she increased the intensity, again attempting to take back the upper hand. Joker overruled her, turning what started as a kiss into a far more passionate one, but not one fueled by fluffy love and rainbows as other were. This was far more . . volatile, a passion born of both violence and compulsion. It was far more dangerous than any other move Artist could have made and Joker mentally saluted her.

She leaned in further as Joker moved his hand down to the small of her back, stroking her as she ran her hand up into his slightly dishevelled green hair, gripping it and pulling it as he had done with hers, seeking minor revenge in their new-found state, causing him to become even more violent. Joker smiled.

_Like I said, this ones got balls._

* * *

Batman stormed back to the batmobile, having had a thorough sweep of the area. He clenched his jaw angrily at the fact both the Joker and the Artist had escaped. He'd been so fucking close. He kicked the tire of the car as he reached it, glad for the armour plating as his foot collided with the rock hard alloy.

They'd pay for what they had done, not just for the explosion today, but for all the deaths they had caused. He scolded himself for not patrolling during the day as well, for having dismissed it at all. As the hatch of the batmobile closed above him and the seatbelt strap automatically came over his shoulder he pulled up a screen on the dash bored.

"Alfred I'm returning to the bat cave, call Gordon and tell him that both assailants are still at large, assure him I'm doing all I can". He said as his butlers image appeared on the monitor.

"Very well sir, anything else?", the Englishman inquired.

Bruce pulled up another screen showing a digital map of Gotham, "Yes", he added, "I want you to track the last known places of the Jokers associates. If I can't find him I'll go through them", He waited as back at the cave Alfred searched the database.

"Sir I have a trace on a familiar face, one Michel Davis. Small time criminal but on the outer edge of Jokers 'social' circle He was one of the first members of the Jokers gang of thugs, been indulging in various crimes here and there, but a frequent in the gangs operations". The butler sent a selection of images to the bat mobiles small monitors. The face of a heavily tattooed body builder loaded, holding a police processing sign with his name and file number. Following it were various still's from CCTV footage of him breaking and entering an up market store in 2012. "I believe this to be him".

"Where was his last known location", Bruce pushed.

"A club in east Gotham, little seedy if you ask me, they call it 'My Alibi'. How ironic". Alfred sent more images, one showing the bar and another its coordinates on the electronic map. "Will that be all sir?, will you be returning to the cave now?". His voice worried.

"Change of plan Alfred", with that Batman pressed a button, his butlers face and the images he had been sent disappearing from the monitors as they folded back, the GPS now set with the coordinates of 'My Alibi'. Bruce gripped the wheel and started up the car, determination running through him as he sped away out of the multi-story car park, passing the abandoned BMW and cursing it as he did.

* * *

So I actually did it, THIRTEEN! Chapters in and they finally kiss, (Slow I know). But I hope you have a better idea of the character's, I wanted to build them up a little before I really got into anything important. From now on it'll be more fast paced as I feel I've been dragging it out to much. But then again I'm really enjoying this, far more than any other fanfiction I've tried to write. I almost don't want it to end :O. (Plenty more to come though).


	14. Chapter Fourteen: Popping Balloons

Chapter Fourteen: Popping Balloons

Artist found that the harder she pulled Jokers hair the harder he held her, taking advantage of that by pulling as hard as she could without ripping it out. Things had become violent, nothing was loving about this. But they both smiled anyway, fun could hurt and the worse the better. They had been like this now for ten minutes at least, their little indiscretion evolving into so much more. Joker had got her up onto one of the box's, her legs both wrapped round him, both hands buried in his green hair like pale snakes in long grass. One purple gloved hand was on her ass, the other her waist, both taking the opportunity to feel up and down. It was only when one of his hands started to run up her thigh that she tried to push him off, not wanting that.

Joker felt her hands go from his hair and push against his chest. He brushed it off and continued running his hand up further, only to again feel a helpless push against him. Stopping he let her go completely, a frustrated growl as he partially pushed her back in repayment. Artist panted, catching her breath and recovering as she watched Joker walk away from her towards a large Tim Burton-esk purple arm chair at the other end of the room.

She sensed she had made him angry but remained resolute in her decision, going that far was still a little too strange for her, especially with someone like Joker. Watching him, she stayed where she was, sat on the box's, her coat wrapped around her to keep her warm. The main reason she had enjoyed being so close to Joker in the first place was the fact that he was warm, now he was gone from her she again felt the icy chill return, wrapping her arms around herself.

This icy chill intensified when she realised that from across the room Joker was watching her. He was sat cross-legged, chin resting on his hand as he part scowled and part smiled at her from his far off position. She shifted under his gaze, extremely uncomfortable. And they had been having so much fun too.

Joker always thought about a million things at once, that's just the way he was. Some of these minor thoughts would stick and blossom into ideas and scenarios, some didn't. Kissing Artist he had found one particular scenario very pleasing, but it appeared that it was not to be. This made him angry but amused too. Not only at his own unnecessary primitive behaviour but also at her prudish response to him.

_My, my, my we are just full of funny little surprises. _He thought.

"_I want to do that again". _A quiet voice mentioned.

"_I don't, I really do not want that again. I can't believe you touched her, I feel sick"._ The old familiar high pitched one argued, a sick sounding croak to his words.

"_Likewise, we should keep away from her". _Said another of many voices.

"_Skin so soft, just once more then we promise-", _a few voices said in unison, only to be cut off.

"No!", Joker yelled at himself, loud enough for Artist to hear from all the way across the large room, his digression echoing towards her. She smiled at him, amused by his behaviour. Annoyance spread through him when he saw her mocking him and he gripped the arms of the chair, imagining they were her limbs, crushing the faded purple striped fabric. Not nearly as soft as her beautiful porcelain skin-

"_Pull yourself together man",_ a voice in his head, much like his own screamed, putting a stopper on that train of thought. Joker shook it away, laughing lightly and knocking on the side of his head.

"Quiet down you guys, you'll annoy the neighbours". He muttered, leaning back, amused also by his bizarre condition. Did other people suffer from this he wondered, or was it just him and his own crazy brain. Giggling he imagined the kind of voices the bat would have in his head, or Artist for that matter. Speaking of which, she was now a little closer to him, sat cross legged on a box about two feet away. He smiled wickedly.

"Wanna come sit on old Uncle J's lap and tell him what you want for Christmas?", he joked, drumming his fingers on the arms of the chair. Artist did reply but couldn't help the small smile that spread across her lips like a compulsive tick, a sensation she hadn't felt before.

She found him to be good company, unconventional yes, a serial killer yes, a ridiculous clown, most defiantly. But despite all that she enjoyed being around him. He was unexpected, bipolar in his manner and always acting oddly. As she sat across from him she examined the mad man further, watching his actions and slight mumbles as he conversed with the many voices in his head. Wondering what they were talking about she twirled a strand of her long white hair in her fingers as she thought, a habit she had been told by others to be quiet cute. She wondered if he would too.

Joker raised an eyebrow. Was she trying to flirt with him? He watched as she kept eye contact with him and twirled her hair, slowly, slowing down even more as she winked at him. He grinned ear to ear. "Don't", was all he said, simply but cheerfully. Artist looked puzzled, sticking her lip out adorably as if hurt by his reaction. She of course was pretending and she knew that he knew it, but it made her point perfectly.

"Trust me my dear, you made yourself perfectly clear", he leaned forward, gripping his hands and interlocking his fingers. "Anyway", he continued, standing up, "What's a guy to do with all these mixed signals huh?, it wouldn't end well", his voice never became unhappy but did become very dark as he walked round his chair, resting on the side of it. His comment had sounded more like a threat than a warning.

Artist didn't stop smiling but felt an odd mix of emotion, a kind of concoction of fear, excitement and happiness. "Why'd you bring me here?", she asked curiously, letting go of her hair and changing the topic. Joker looked away from her as if trapped in his thoughts.

Eventually he came back to a calm manner and smiled, "One should always have friends over now and again don't you think. Tea parties, dinner, games of twister". He clapped his hands a little like a child. Artist felt another smile appear when he insinuated she was his friend. She guessed she was, I mean they did blow up a building together. "Yes, yes, yes, I make sure I keep the best kind of company, but lately it's been hard to come by, being that most of them are locked up in that façade of a mental hospital".

"Arkham?", Artist offered. He shot her a glare.

"Yes, that pathetic Wendy house of an institution. But pay no heed to that Arty, I can get by far better on my own. But you know how it is, the crushing loneliness of being the only clown at the party, the only one completely content with just popping the balloons with the cake knife". Dramatically he clutched his chest.

"Um . . . I guess". She said unsure.

Joker frowned, turned away from her and continued his little soliloquy. "Yes, I too like the company of friends, however lately all of mine are incarcerated which is, you know. Kind of a bummer". His whole form dropped like a sad rag doll, his long arms limp at his sides.

"So this is what, some kind of twisted play date?", she inquired emotionless. Joker grinned right at her, his head still limp from his over reaction.

"Exactly!".He watched as Artist sat still and completely blank faced.

Suddenly she clasped her hands together and squeed happily, "Yay!" she squeaked in delight. Joker leant up again, very interested in her reaction. He'd always wanted to meet another person like him and here they were, like ten birthdays at once. A mad little porcelain doll, a playmate just for him. Similarity was something he though he'd never feel but here it was, with a person he had wanted to kill not more than four hours ago. Life can be funny.

Artist bounced up and down in excitement. This was finally it, she had a real friend, not someone she had to be fake around, like all her other friends who knew her only as Ivory. No, but someone who liked her kind of fun, her kind of excitement. "Lets do something!", she said giddily.

Joker chuckled at his new partner in crime, pleased with what a little psychopath he had found. It only made sense that they should do something to christen this new partnership. "Whaddaya wanna do tonight then brain?", he said jumping up onto one of the box's near her, removing himself from his looming position behind the chair. He mimicked the way she was sitting, hands holding his feet with legs crossed. They were like two kindergartners sitting around ready to play with the Lego's, only their fun would be with a real city, not a pretend one.

"Ah the night is young and we have only blown up one building", they both giggled and Joker laughed hard, "But there is so much waiting for us out there, so many innocent people, so many upstanding pillars of the community ready to be knocked down by a bowling ball or two". Joker felt a pulse of excitement at the very notion of destruction, understanding how easy it must have been for another person to become so addicted to the feeling. Looking at Artist he sense a similar feeling welling up inside her and it fuel his own adrenaline.

"We should do exactly that!", Artist felt the words burst from her brain and out of her mouth like lightning. Her ideas furhter ahead than even her brain.

"Care to elaborate", Joker waved her a hand, gesturing for her to continue as if they were in a sick little discussion group. Psychopath's anonymous. She didn't need any time to think, she already new what she wanted to do, oh yes she did and she forgot about the cold in the room and unwrapped her hands from around herself, using them animatedly to further her presentation.

"A bulldozer!", she could hardly contain herself.

"A bulldozer?", Joker saw the genius immediately but wanted her to do the talking, he so enjoyed listening to the plans and concoctions of other twisted individuals. He got off on it. Plus he wanted to fully check out his new friend. Mentally now that the more _physical_ bit was out of the question. For now.

"We steal a bulldozer and knock down the Gotham court house, like you said. 'many upstanding pillars', or soon to be not 'not so standing pillars'". Artist made a knife cut gesture across her throat as she said this and Joker felt a sense of mad adrenaline as he listened to the plan. He hung to her every gesture and word and she went into even more detail about this new plan. Once she was finished Joker felt speechless, a strange sensation for him.

Standing up he walked over to her reaching out stroking Artist cheek endearingly, "What a wonderful play mate your going to make". He had to wrestle with the voices in his head telling him to either strangle her or fuck her. They'd have to deal with a harsh but necessary course of thoroughly un-radical behaviour where she was concerned, he'd already made up his mind and the rest of the people in his head would have to accept that fact. At least he hoped as he fought of the minor urge to remove his glove so that he could feel her skin completely.

Artist had developed a habit of just watching him when he was like this, amused by the blank faces he pulled when he was obviously doing something in his head which she could neither see nor hear. Joker didn't look angry or violent at the moment so reached out to stroke his face in return but was shoved back forcefully.

"Careful dear, you'll give me cooties", Joking of course, he gave her a hand up. Artist was not remotely upset by his sudden actions, in fact she laughed with him.

Joker's smile stretched to its limits. Finally there were two clowns at the party, popping the balloons with the cake knife.

* * *

Michel Davis opened his eyes, his vision blurry and full of black pulsating circles as he gained consciousness, feeling something wrong as blood flooded to his head and caused him to become nauseous. He was not yet aware enough to panic, still almost in a dream like state having been knocked out. The feeling of the trickling of blood down his head made him remember what had happened, but what really got to him was the direction of the trickle, going from above his eyebrow, and then down his bald head. Sorta like . . like someone was holding him upside down . . .

Davis's brain went into shock as he now fully panicked, arching his head up to look above him, into the eyes of the Dark Knight. "Jesus", he screamed, flailing at the end of the Batmans solid grip.

"Guess again", the gruff voice growled from above him, the shadow like figure obscured by the dark curtain of his cape. Davis looked down, his shoulders and back tired and badly beaten from his encounter with the vigilante. He saw the man hole at the bottom of the alley, at least ten feet underneath him, the rain falling upwards from his perspective, the blood from his head joining in with the drops of icy water.

"Where's Joker been hiding?", Batman yelled at the dangling Michel Davis, who's catatonic state had only worsened when he remembered his extreme fear of heights.

"I-I DON'T KNOW!", Davis replied panicked. "PLEASE I'LL DO WHATEVER YOU WANT". Batman loosened his grip and Davis felt it, feeling the slight drop and again flailing madly. "PPLLEEAASSEE"|.

"TELL ME WHERE TO FIND THE JOKER", Batman roared over the sound of the rain. Davis was too scared to think, mumbling and pleading, between which Batman managed to decipher one odd phrase. 'Puppet Guy'. He again dropped the man slightly, then pulled him up to face hight, Davis' black and blue face and inch of so from his cowled visage.

"Puppet guy?", Batman repeated. Davis calmed down, but the stare of the vigilante made him sing like Tweedy Pie as he explained.

"You know, the old guy, short, kinda awkward, walks around with this creepy puppet", he swallowed hard, "only talks through the damn thing, like he needs it to have a conversation . . .". Batman took a step back so that Davis was no longer dangling over the edge, calming the man enough to talk further. "Few months back, before the boss got busted last, him and the puppet guy did business, had a hide out and everything. Though I doubt that weirdo got caught, he never did get his hands dirty, always sat on the side with that fuckin' doll of his".

"Scarface", Batman finished his sentence for him.

"I dunno, it had cracks all over it, probably ancient, don't think he cleaned it much, probably slept with the damn thing, never did see him take it off". Batman thought for a moment.

"Wesker", he said to himself.

"Who?", Davis said confused, dangling inelegantly still.

The vigilante leaned into his face again, "Tell me", his voice intimidating, "Where was this hide out?"

"Uh, somewhere out of the way, for good reason, Room 24J or maybe it was room 34J, I dunno man, all I know is its in the Narrows somewhere, an apartment block way way WAY outta the way, If you know what I'm saying. Boss didn't want anyone finding him. The rest of the place is just filled with drunks and crack heads, not so fancy but it worked. But I only went there once or twice on weapon runs", Davis sweated, "That's all I know, I swear". He finished quickly.

"I know, I believe you", Batman reassured.

Davis exhaled, relived, "You gonna let me go now right?".

"Wrong", as he said this the dark knight slammed his fist into Davis head, knocking him out cold and dropping him onto the roofs rain soaked floor.

Batman turned and switched on his cowls communications unit, "Alfred, put in an anonymous call to the police, tell them they'll find Michel Davis on the rooftop of My Alibi. He's wanted on two six drugs charges".

Alfred could be heard sighing wearily on the other end, "Another anonymous tip sir?, very well". Bruce cut off the conversation and looked out into the bright lights of the Gotham city evening scene. It's was going to be a long night.

* * *

I know this is shorter than the other chapters. There was more to it but I decided to give it its own chapter because it dealt with something that I feel had to be approached from a subtle angle and portrayed genuinely. I'm uploading it shortly once I feel it's been perfected, but here's something to hold you over. :)


	15. Chapter Fifteen: Monster Under The Bed

Chapter Fifteen: The Monster Under The Bed.

Ivory rolled over, the soft coarse nature of the sheets bothering her, but not enough so to keep her from drifting off again. She pulled the blanket up over her head and cocooned herself within its slightly itchy tomb, tucking the corners under her feet and back as if to create some crude cotton shield. She breathed out, long and softly as she buried her face comfortably in the far smoother material of the pillow. God how she missed her own bed, her soft black silky sheets, her large king-sized mattress, the familiar posters which surrounded her as she slept. This old makeshift one didn't even compare.

Ivory had explored the Jokers hide out thoughtfully, fiddling with everything she came across, be it a prop or a weapon. It felt like she was getting to know him from the things he had lying around, like putting together one big jumbled puzzle piece by piece until a picture emerged, not necessarily whole, but enough to give you an idea of its complete form. Jokers was very difficult to piece together which made it all the more intriguing. After spending the entire evening rummaging, much to the Jokers annoyance, she had decided to get some sleep, finding an unused sofa bed in what looked like a cluster of underground offices which adjoined the large storage space which Joker had used to pile up all his deadly toys. It wasn't much but it would make do, she wasn't fussy and she was extremely tired. Who knew terrorism could be so draining.

Hitting it hard as she leapt onto its surprisingly clean bouncy surface and making herself an odd little nest which slowly evolved into the cocooned pile of sheets and warmth she was now in. The heat under the sheets had slowly built up and she felt as it its presence was manner from heaven in the industrial freezer like temperature of the outside. Drifting off again she had little snippets of dreams, mainly excited ones about this whole bulldozer thing her and Joker had talked about. Smiling as she shut her eyes she drifted in and out of the little episodes of violent glee. Tomorrow was going to be a good day. For her at least. Not so much for anyone in the Gotham court house. She was more excited for the chaos than the murder, being that murder was merely a tool to cause chaos rather than any actual fun itself. But then again she had to admit she enjoyed killing those people in the Narrows, and the Klarks, and that security guard, and the channel 5 producer-

Actually scratch that murder was fun for her. So long as it was dramatic. Nothing saddened Artist more than a boring death. Which while we're on the subject of dreams, was her worst nightmare. She rolled over again so that she could see the clock above the office door, which she found she couldn't in the pitch darkness, her drowsyness effecting her brain more than she thought it would.

She shrugged and again rolled over to face the wall, which had once been a rich red, now a fading brown by the looks of it. She knew her colours. Just as her lids begun to shut peacefully, a soft yet sinister click sounded from the door of the small room, followed by a little pale light entering and then sinking away yet again as the door again clicked back into place. However this time it was followed by another harder click. A locking sound.

Ivory pulled the sheets up over her head again, resuming her pathetic shield as she felt her chest clench and her heart race. What was it? She thought as she curled up into a ball under the itchy cotton which she now felt thankful for. Footsteps followed, getting louder and louder until they stopped, the sound of someone settling into a chair that was positioned just at the foot of the sofa bed ending the pattern of noise. Despite this cessation of creepy sounds Ivory didn't ease up, every muscle tense, every limb stiff as she made herself smaller and smaller in her little cotton tomb. She silenced her breathing as much as she could but an extreme panic was slowly settling upon her, a sense of complete vulnerability and helplessness which she swallowed hard, trying to over come.

It occurred to her that whoever had entered the room no doubt knew where she was and had seen her move. And also would obviously hear her erratic breathing which was intensifying more and more every second that she and this intruder spent in deathly intimidating silence.

Perhaps they thought she was asleep? Perhaps they weren't going to do anything if she continued to pretend to be unaware of their presence. Her heart beat was so loud she felt they would surely hear it. She felt dread as she realised that she had no options. She couldn't escape they had locked the door and she didn't want to stay either, knowing full well that whoever this was did not have good intentions. Speaking of which, who was it? Joker? She was sure they were the only two here, he didn't mention anybody else being here, nor did Ivory find anything to suggest there were other people around. The confusion and not knowing was eating away at her in a very bad way and she begun to sweat a little, the heat she had hoarded under the covers now working against her.

The intruder sat at the foot of her bead, and Ivory felt a familiar fear welling up, as if she had felt this paralysing scared sensation before, this made her sick and she felt tears welling up in her eyes. But why this was she didn't feel comfortable thinking about. It was something she had done away with years ago, a piece of her past she had locked up for good in the darkest parts of her very self. She wasn't that person any more. This feeling of the midnight intruder who invades her peaceful world was a story that played in her mind like an old black and white horror film, one she wished they would stop showing.

Her thoughts were frozen by the sensation of a hand stroking her. As she had preoccupied herself with bad memories this intruder had made their way next to the bed, running their finger down her spine as it curved more into the safety of the ball. Something inside Ivory broke and she started to cry, first silently in her arms which wrapped tightly around her head and shoulders, then slightly louder like whispers, her whole body convulsing with sobs.

All of a sudden the stroking stopped as she heard the intruder speak for the first time in an insidious whisper, "I know your awake". She jumped and jolted away across the bed until she hit the wall, almost having a heart attack. It was then she heard the laughter of this nightmare demon, deep and devil like, but it didn't last long and soon stopped quickly, but not before it started to sound a little different. A little familiar.

"Hey Arty?", Joker asked a little confused. "I was just messing with you". He sounded sincere but still had his normal melodic tone in his voice. One which Ivory never thought she'd be so glad to hear. She didn't stop crying though, she couldn't help it, she had been so afraid, so unlike herself. Ivory only curled up tighter, still paralysed.

Joker had only wanted to say boo!, or spook her some other way. He was taken aback by her reaction to his little prank. This was coming from the same woman who not only put a gun to her own head but had merely smiled at him when he dangled her outside the top window of a skyscraper. This wasn't what he had expected from his fearless new friend.

She was still hiding from Joker under that old blanket, shivering in fear from him like she hadn't done from anyone in a long time. Joker felt annoyed she wasn't responding the way he had wanted, no anger or shared laughter. Just . . . crying.

"Come on I was only joking", he put a hand on where he guessed her shoulder was. Immediately she jumped under his touch but felt too afraid to move. He felt a twinge of regret inside him, somewhere where empathy still glowed in the darkness. Or maybe it was guilt. He'd seen people like this before in Arkham, in their 'private' therapy sessions when they were being regressed or treated for some form of trauma. Joker figured he must have sent her into some kind of episodic shock.

_Shit._

Joker knelt on the sofa bed and sat cross-legged on the mattress next to Ivory, doing his best not to scare her any more than he already had. "Fradey Cat", he mocked as pulled the cover down slightly so that he could see her tear soaked face. Her bright blue eyes were watery and shiny in the dark, wide open like a small animal in headlights awaiting its fate. "Art?", he brushed her cheek and felt tears immediately coat his fingers. He had removed his glove's earlier, hoping the next time he touched her soft skin he would be able to feel it properly. Now that he had his chance it was tear stained and shivering.

"_Well fucking done", _a shrill voice in his head cursed. Joker barely heard it as he moved Ivory's white hair out of her face as it was sticking to it a little from all her crying. She felt this and came back to reality, out of her nightmare and back to the small old underground office. The first thing she heard was Jokers voice, sounding softer than she had ever thought possible.

"Its okay", he cooed as he sat next to her, rubbing her shoulder reassuringly. Joker had no fucking clue what he was doing, despite he himself having suffered from one or two accidental regressions. All he knew is that when you come out of one you feel like shit.

Ivory grabbed his hand with hers and turned over so that her head was resting on his lap. Snuggling into it a little she sighed. "Asshole". She punched him hard in the stomach and felt him laugh and smiled a little, but it didn't last. Slow tears trickled down her face and Joker brushed them off. "Disappointed?", she asked quietly closing her eyes.

"Not remotely dear, not even close". Joker smirked in a less happier way, as he stared into nothing, comparing her to him not only in terms of their actions but their mental state. Chuckling a little he replied, "Your more like me than I thought". A slight chuckle. "Completely insane".

Ivory liked this, she could make out the shape of his head and shoulders above her in the dark, kinda like her dream a few nights back. She found him comforting, not like the midnight monster he had pretended to be before, who scared her more than Joker could ever hope to.

Both of them were oddly comfortable like this and remained so until Joker thought Artist had slipped back into her sleep. When he tried to move she grabbed the bottom of his waist coat. "Don't", was all she said, though it sounded like she was pleading with him more than anything else. Obeying her he remained still, looking down at her curled up slender form. So funny how something so vulnerable looking could cause so much violence and mayhem. With a monster like him that was easy to understand, but not with her, not with this sleeping angel. But perhaps that was part of her cruelty, luring people into thinking she was just another pretty girl, then shocking them with the devil beneath that perfect exterior. An exterior which had cracks in it.

"Want to talk about it?", he asked only half seriously. Ivory ignored him. "I'll take that as a 'no' then". A little while later he started to move again and Ivory again protested by grabbing him. "Easy there Sir Cling-a-lot, I'm not spending the whole nigh sat up like this". She let him move and he laid down next to her so that he was facing her, his toxic waste burnt eyes looking into her galaxy blue ones, reddened by harsh tears. "Wimp", he lightly joked.

"Wanna hear a secret?", he whispered to her as she curled back into him, burying her face in tiredness and embarrassment because he'd seen her cry. She nodded, her face against the purple fabric of his shirt, making a wet patch from her quickly drying eyes. Joker stroked her head as he laughed a little, his friend no longer shying away from him as she had done earlier. He had hated that. No fun playing with a broken toy.

"You know all about the monsters that hide under peoples beds don't you", again she nodded. "Well there's all different types. Their jaws lined with razor sharp teeth, red eyes that glow in the darkness from the shadows that hide them, their claws that creep from the depths to pry at the floor beneath you". Ivory wondered if he was deliberately trying to make her feel worse.

"But there on your side", he then added, "The monster under the bed is no more than a guardian of sorts, a construct to house your innermost fears and problems". He found himself wrapping both arms round her as he felt her shiver from the cold. "He's like a guard dog, someone looking out for you while you slumber. Because every night when your nightmares come to collect you, the monster stops them. He crawls from under the bed a drives away everything that haunts you. So don't fear it, not for one moment".

Ivory moved her head to look him in the face, intrigued by what he was saying. "Whatever it is that frightens you at night, it can never really hurt you. All because of the monster". Ivory looked sad and Joker knew she would, having guessed what traumatised her so much. That for her younger self the demons that came to torment her in the night were real. Human.

"And where's my monster?", she said a little fire in her as anger made her scrunch a fist as she curled into him. Upset that when she had needed protecting the most no one was there to help her. "Where was my monster when I needed him?". Joker hugged her tight and Ivory felt that familiar sense of similarity and, dare she say it, safety.

"I'm here now".

* * *

I know this is short, it was meant to go on the end of chapter fourteen but I wanted to give it it's own because I felt it deserved it. I'm not too good at writing this soppy and emotional stuff so this will probably be all there is.


	16. Chapter Sixteen: Grenade Baseball

Chapter Sixteen: Grenade Baseball

It was the early hours of morning and dawn had still not broken, a partially dark grey sky hanging over Gotham like an illness. Bruce pulled up to the depopulated apartment block in the batmobile and slowly stepped out, looking up at the building which was practically falling apart. Though the structure looked unsafe it was clear people still lived here from the amount of cars and general feeling of it. Bruce realised that the type of people who lived here were probably the type of people who had something to hide, or were caught up in some kind of trouble.

Walking in dressed as Batman probably wasn't a great idea and would send anyone of them heading for the hills. He hunched, his shoulders heavy from the nights investigations. That is if you could call violently intimidating a large portion of the criminal underworld investigating. His back felt like a heavy rock was weighing down upon it and every limb seemed used up in its energy. He rolled his eyes at himself, the night had been a long one as he had predicted. Hopefully this would be its end.

Motivating himself as much as was possible he grappled up to the rooftop, entering the decaying structure via a maintenance door. _This place has maintenance_, Bruce thought surprised. Once in, the full extent of the damaged building became even more obvious, the halls and stairwells pasted with ripped posters and layer upon layer of graffiti, some of it so old that it might have been a decade or two since the building had seen a fresh lick of paint. The sound of loud music could be heard coming from a few floors below, as well as the sound of domestic shouting from somewhere else. The perfect disguise for his movements, especially this early in the morning.

It wasn't hard to find 24J, the place was surprisingly large but ordered. Also the Joker had never been particularly subtle. 'J', vastly limiting what Bruce had to search for. Joker liked to leave some kind of obviously taunting trace for him, making it easy to track the clown down each time he went off the radar. Like a game of hide and seek but always on Jokers terms.

Batman considered knocking, Wesker wasn't a violent man, at least not when he was alone. Scarface was a whole different ball park though. But when Wesker was separate he was perfectly normal, in fact he was more than a little timid in the company of others.

Tapping gently on the door, much different to his usual forceful approach, he awaited the silent footsteps approaching from the other side to reach him. The door opened a crack and Batman saw the tired and elderly face of Arnold Wesker, obscured by more bolt locks than necessary. The old man's eyes betrayed him and Bruce immediately saw that Wesker had been expecting a visit from him.

"B-b-batman", he stuttered shocked, quickly slamming the door again, the fastening of all the locks sounding off one by one.

Batman breathed out harshly. So this was how it was going to have to be. With all the strength left in his limbs the dark knight pushed the door in, breaking all nine of the bolt locks and sending the wooden structure crashing to the ground with a thud. A crash no one would hear over the loud music from one of the above rooms. Lucky.

Batman found Wesker crouched in the corner of his bedroom, slowly rocking backwards and forwards in front of his bedside chest.

"Wesker!", Batman rose his voice a little, knowing that too much intimidation and the man may go into a panic attack as he often did when confronted. This being due to the fact that Wesker was an elderly man and not a hardened criminal, not like Scarface. "The Joker", Batman sternly said, not a question but a demand.

Wesker calmed himself and looked at batman finally, "He's – he's gone", he said rapidly as he scooted as far away from the shadowy bat figure as possible. Batman took another step closer to him to close the distance.

"Where has he gone!", a far more viscous growl. Wesker responded by jumping, Bruce wondering if he should ease up a little or risk giving the pensioner a heat attack. "Answer me!".

"I-I don't know. He-he said something about revenge last time I saw him", Wesker put an arm out in front of him encase the shadow attempted to strike out in anger. Batman walked round the bed so that he was inches from the old man, the tip of his long shadow ending just above Weskers eyes, almost completely engulfing him. "He never really comes here, only t-twice", he gulped, "F-first time for help from Scarface, s-second to pick something up".

"_Pick something up_", the bat repeated. "Pick what up?" he pushed.

Wesker again gulped, harder this time, his throat drying out fast. "A suitcase, it was just full of essentials. A small selection of weapons, a fresh suit, nothing important. . . I think". Wesker shivered in fear as he waited to see if batman was pleased with his response.

"When did he collect it?!", the bat interrogated further.

"I- I don- A couple of days ago", Wesker said, more of a question than an answer.

"Are you sure?!", Batman barked back. Wesker nodded rapidly in fear.

Bruce worked out a small time line in his head, starting from Jokers escape from Arkham to his massacre at the meat factory and then to the break in at the gallery. It seemed to fit. "Did he say anything about the Gotham Gallery?".

Wesker was silent.

"Answer me Wesker, neither of us want to be doing this". Bruce enforced.

Wesker again was silent. That is until a much deeper, cackle like voice rose up from within him, emitting from the old man but without his mouth budging.

"Go and hang upside down you fucking flying rodent!". Batman was taken aback but didn't show it visibility, continuing to watch the old man as he pulled his hand out from the draw it had been resting in all along. Bruce too distracted to notice, fooled by the old man's façade of normalcy.

"What!", he asked as he saw that Wesker had gotten on the Scarface puppet, be it a little lopsided from the angle he had his hand. Wesker turned it and it was as if Scarface was glaring at the dark knight from the side, his harsh painted deformed eye piercing him.

"Oh, I'm sorry. What I meant to say was _please_ go hang upside down you fucking flying rodent". The deep voice again spoke, so much different to Weskers.

"Arnold I don't have time for this, I need to know where the Joker went!", Batman pushed past Weskers mental bad habits. It was like talking to two face but worse.

Scarface was now _stood_ up right, both eyes now trained on him. "And why should I tell you that batshit?", the puppet defied. Batman sighed as he realised what he now had to do. With a single motion batman lunged forward and ripped the puppet off Weskers arm, the horrified puppeteer gasping as it was forcefully removed.

"MR SCARFACE!", Wesker screamed at the vigilante as he watched Batman hold his inanimate friend by the crocked wooden leg. "DON'T YOU HURT HIM!". The old man leapt to his friends defence, throwing himself at Batman only to be forcefully knocked back. He landed on the bed indigently, staring up in fear as he watched the bat move to the window and open it.

"Leave that moron out of this batshit, this is between you and me". Scarface said, mouth unmoving as Wesker threw his voice from across the room. Batman opened the window as wide as it would allow and held Scarface out with one arm, feeling ridiculous as he glared at the puppets stiff wooden face, hanging upside down like all the thugs he had previously intimidated. This felt like a low point in his career.

"Now let me ask again", he barked at Wesker, turning his head towards the quivering man. "Where did Joker go".

Many a horrible scenario went through Weskers mind as he watched his friend being dangled defenceless by the dark intruder. He propped himself up and reached out in a feeble manner with his hand as he pleaded. "Okay!, okay!, I'll tell you!". Cold sweat ran down his head and back as he breathed heavily, thinking about what Joker would do to him if he found out he'd rat on him to the Batman. Or worse, what he'd do to Mr Scarface.

"Shut up old man!", Scarface managed to get in between Weskers panicked words, "Tell him and I'll gut you worse than the clown will when he hears about this". The puppets mouth didn't budge but Bruce was unnerved by how much the sound felt like it was emanating from its wood, as if this object really was conversing on its own.

"I can't sir, I need to tell him-",Wesker reasoned with Scarface, grabbing his head with both his hands as he begun to rock slowly. "I have too".

Scarface's eyes seemed to catch the light of a street lamp, like some sinister piercing pupil in his pitch black orbs. "Don't you fucking dare. Your always getting in my way Wesker, we never accomplish anything because of you, your such a damn coward".

"No!", Wesker rocked more violently.

"YES", Scarface screamed, Bruce swearing he felt a slight vibration from within the wood but was sure he only imagined it. "Your a loser Wesker, a LOSER!".

Wesker became more and more distressed as he now violently gripped his head, nails clawing as if Scarface was screaming from inside his brain, the man unable to escape the space he shared with him.

_LOSER!, LOSER!, LOSER!_

"Arnold!", Batman yelled above the noise of Scarface's menacing words, breaking the insane bond between the two's surreal argument. Wesker stopped and looked through glassy eyes at the vigilante and at the puppet that so tormented him. "Please, you _need_ to tell me or more people will die".

Wesker used an arm to wipe his eyes, still visibly shaking from his episode. He heard Batman's anxious worried tone and breathed heavily before answering. "Joker said something about another hide out, somewhere more off the grid than this. Abandoned I think. But he never told me where, didn't trust me".

"And he was bloody right not to!", Scarface interjected.

Wesker dropped his head in a defeated manner, his shoulders jolting slightly to hint at the small tearless sobs as he realised what he had revealed and the possible repercussions of his actions. "I-I don't know any more than that", he added. "Just please", he continued, "Please don't hurt Mr Scarface" finishing off through barely a whisper.

Batman believed him and pulled the puppet back inside, dropping it to the floor with a few small clanks or two. It fell in a heap of twisted limbs and no sooner than it had hit the floor, Wesker was upon it, holding it and cradling it. His voice was so quiet, but Batman knew he wasn't talking to him but to the puppet as he heard the old man repeat over and over again.

"_Forgive me! Forgive me! Forgive me! Forgive me! Forgive me!"_

"I won't let the Joker hurt you Wesker, or-", he paused and gulped, "Or Scarface", he couldn't believe he had said that, feeling as if he was only encouraging the poor man's delusions. "I promise".

Wesker stopped whispering but said nothing to the dark knight, he merely held Scarface as if he were some wounded child. Batman waited for a response but when none came he thought it best to leave the poor man alone with his distress, having caused enough of it. He'd have to call Gordon to tell him where Wesker was hiding, despite the man's harmless nature, Wesker housed something deep within him, a psychopathic evil which he had seen fit to name Scarface. And for that reason he was a danger.

The dark knight had never understood this divided persona of Wesker's, this stark black and white between him and what arose within him when he was near that god damn puppet. It's not like the doctors at Arkham didn't try to take it away, separate the two in the hope of rescuing Arnold Wesker from this darkness. But it had done more bad than good and so they gave it back, the pair inseparable it seemed, one chained to the other in mental matrimony. Batman had fought many enemies and seen a lot of his own darkness in his time as a crime fighter, but Wesker to this day still made him sad. To this day Wesker was still a tragedy to him more than a foe, and it was unlikely he would ever be free from this insidious objects shackle.

"Wait", Wesker shakily said as Batman reached the door leading out of the small apartment. He rested his palm on the door frame as he turned, able to see a slither of the inside of the bedroom where Wesker still sat hunched over his wooden friend. As he did he he heard a voice he couldn't quite distinguish as either Wesker or Scarface. "You can't protect us Batman, he always finds a way to hurt us, when your back is turned. He'll find a way". It sent chills to Bruce's very soul, that voice which sounded like a combined plea from within the man's split mind.

With that last eerie remark from Weskers combined personality's Bruce left, shutting the door to 24J behind him, shutting the door on the madness that resided on the other side as he left to find a far worse embodiment. Leaving the serious man and his puppet alone together once more.

Joker awoke as he felt a slight movement against him. He blinked a little, eyes not really needing to adjust to the permanent state of darkness his underground hideout was usually in. It was a weak nudge but stirred him none the less, his eyes capturing the shadowed blurred form of Artist asleep next to him. He then noticed he couldn't feel his left arm, being that she was lying on top of it cutting off his blood supply. The other was wrapped around her still as she blissfully slept.

Remembering the night before he stroked her arm as she was sleeping, starting at the elbow and ending at her shoulder where he begun to play with her hair in a way he had to admit was becoming a habit. Stopping he stared at her, the person who he had wanted to kill, then fuck, then scare shitless, then comfort. He smiled at his own changeable nature and inability to stick with a goal.

She moved in her sleep, closer to him and Joker looked on confused at her feelings of comfort around him. Not that he'd complain, feeling smug as his little porcelain doll of destruction lay next to him without a care in the world. Him, an insane psychopathic serial killer who looked like the love child of Ronald McDonald and Slender Man and her, the most perfect creature imaginable. At least to Joker she was, other people might have a problem with the whole murder thing but to him that was the frosting on the cake, the main attraction in the show, the drum beat in the music. He continued to watch her sleep, her complete vulnerability making him a little tempted to do something. What this was he wasn't sure. Hurt her?, probably not, he didn't like that idea as much as he previously had.

"That's really creepy", Joker jumped a little as he looked at her face, eyes open looking at his with an amused and mocking expression. "Enjoying the show", she mused, twirling a finger in her white hair. "Seriously though that's creepy".

Joker smiled back and leant down to her a little more, "I'm a creepy guy, if you hadn't noticed". His grin was a little sinister as he said this.

"Yeah, you look like Tim Curry from I.T had a mid-life crisis". She fired back quickly, Smirking as she twirled her locks in her fingers.

Jokers grin stretchered ear to ear now as he traced his fingers down her neck, not grabbing her but almost as if he were eluding to it, threatening to do so. "Coming from my little monochrome phantom of the opera nightmare, that's a complement". He said making small circles around her throat. Instead of flinching away she moved closer to his face, resting her cheek on his as she whispered sharply into his ear.

"It wasn't an insult, I like clowns, especially the creepy one's". She giggled a little after which made Joker laugh himself, loving the feeling of her soft skin against his-

"_Not this again"_, said a voice loudly from within the deep recesses of his brain. He ignored it, annoyed it even by bringing his hand to stroke her cheek as she moved away from him to rest her head back on the pillow. _"Asshole"_, it responded as he stroked the edge of her jaw, reaching her chin and pausing to savour the feeling. Ivory shut her eyes and savoured it too, so much more different from his violent grip that had bruised her wrist.

She opened her eyes again as Joker sat up and swung his legs round so that he was on the edge of the sofa bed, adjusting his waistcoat which had been creased during his nights sleep. Luckily he had a few more suits lying around the place, being that he refused to wear anything else. The guards uniform from Arkham having been an exception to this rule of his. Experimentation if you like.

Standing up he looked back down at his loony buddy, partially wrapped up in the blanket with an equally creased coat and shirt, her hair wild and wavy everywhere like some lions mane. "Well well well", he muttered staring at her and then looking back at himself. "We do look rather guilty". Once Ivory realised what he was insinuating she threw the pillow at him, hitting him in the face but failing to stop his suggestive smile which annoyed her to no end. "Calm down my little paint splatter, I'm just kidding. I was merely making an observation".

Ivory grinned, "Oh yeah?, observe this!", she shouted, throwing the other pillow at him, again getting him in the face and again failing to wipe the smile from it. Joker only tutted.

"Honestly such bad behaviour for a guest". Joker waved his finger in disapproval at her as she sat up on the bed and pouted dramatically. Leaning down, resting his hands on his knees he wickedly grinned, a small laugh erupting from his lungs in a dry cackle. "Now", he begun, "As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted", Ivory scowled, "Is that we could both do with a costume change, considering their current state". Joker chuckled as Ivory looked down at her bedraggled apparel, trying to smooth out the mountain like creases.

Joker stood up and cracked his back, followed by his neck and then his knuckles, stretching high as he did. "You know, other than you blubbering like a baby, last night was a pretty good sleep". He said arms falling back to his sides. Ivory looked away embarrassed. "Awww don't be like that, we all have a good cry now and again. All except for me of course cause I'm super macho and all". She smiled as he joked, Joker cocking his head to stare at her, "You know my little art fanatic, where emotions are concerned its better out than in I've learned, otherwise it'll develop a personality of its own and give you a headache".

"_Hey!",_A collection of his many maddening voices shrieks offended.

This made her feel a lot better, "So we can still hang out, I didn't make things awkward or anything?". She worriedly asked. Joker now let rip a long fit of of laughter.

"Hahahaha!, no more than trying to kill me or making out with me", he raised an eyebrows and she faintly punched him in the shoulder for it. "Say no more about it?", he offered rubbing his shoulder in mock pain. Ivory nodded. "Where was I?", he muttered, "Ah yes!" he exclaimed in a pleased tone, "In order to act the part you have to look the part". He beamed, putting his arms out at his sides and his head chin up, poking fun at the way Superman stands in all his pictures. "This looks like a job for", imaginary drum role, "The wardrobe". Jokingly pointing of into the distance as if some great quest lay ahead. Ivory indulged him and his oddly good mood. She hadn't really spent enough time with the guy to figure out if this was his usual manner, optimistic and thoroughly un-serious, switching between a violent mood then to a sunny disposition. Then again he did call himself 'The Joker', which really said it all didn't it. Thank God there was someone out their more insane than her. She breathed relived.

Joker moved from the room and ran out the door before Ivory could even look to follow him with her eyes. _Damn it I wish he'd slow down._ She thought as she continued to attempt to smooth out creases from her wrinkled costume. When a few minutes passed and he didn't return she left to follow, coming out into the large store room again, the giant Jack in the box greeting her as she did.

"Joker?", she yelled, cupping her hands to carry the sound as it echoed around her. Nothing. "Joker?", she tried again, louder this time, the echo travelling further. Again nothing. She jumped as she felt a hand grab hers and pull it roughly, it was Joker, though Ivory didn't have much time to think before she was hauled of in that direction by him, puzzled and interested and wondering where he was leading her.

A large red curtain was draped over an upper level walkway of the storage room, secured by chains and falling in a theatrical stage like fashion. It obscured behind it a small section of the room which housed shipping containers, twenty or thirty by the looks of it, some piled up, some not, but all waling off an area as if to create a separate makeshift room, only accessible from an container open on both sides obscured by the large curtain. _This place is massive, _Ivory thought as she was lead towards it.

From the outside it looked like a solid pile, but as her and Joker slipped behind the curtain and through the open container the reality of it was revealed. Circus costumes and equipment lay strewn everywhere, smaller crates and piles leant against walls, the open ends of the containers revealed even more props and oddity's as Ivory looked up the inside of the makeshift wall at everything hanging out of it like an explosion in a joke shop. Joker really had a fetish for this whole clown thing, she smiled.

A corner of the space was noticeably tidy, a single rack with a deviation of different purple suits, all clean and pressed. A row of black dress shoes and a Jester headed cane. Other than this everything was a mess. She looked around in awe at the bright colours and shapes that surrounded her.

"I would have sorted this all out if I knew I was going to have company", he said as he marched off into one of the containers, throwing juggling balls and trinkets behind him as he searched, "Half of this crap isn't even useful". Tossing away a feathered top hat as he spoke. Ivory watched him as he rummaged, wondering what he was looking for, her curiosity quenched when he re-emerged with a hanger holding a Pierrot clown costume.

A white body suit, with an exaggerated black ruff and big black fluffy buttons, three to be precise running down the centre. It had bare legs like her costume but long sleeves which had a hole at the end for her thumbs to poke through like gloves. It looked beautiful yet very sinister, there was something about it which seemed unique and bizarre, befitting her perfectly.

"Ta da!", he said cheerfully stepping over piles of costumes to get back to her, Ivory residing in the one organised part of the makeshift room. "I'd been wondering where I'd put this. Personally its a little too _renascence theatre_ for me, but it'd suit you perfectly", he added holding it up in front of her, obscuring all but her head. "I do have an eye for fashion you know, among my many other talents".

Ivory looked at the thing, liking it but at the same time feeling a little insulted, "So I'm what? Your side-kick now?, I have to dress as a clown?", she said crossing her arms and glaring at him. Joker faked shock, throwing his rag doll arms in the air.

"But Arty!", he said in a high pitched soft tone, grabbing the hanger and pouting, "I just wanted to dress you up", he argued as if it were a good enough reason. "You'd look so cool though!", trying again to wipe away her glare.

Ivory stared again at the costume, then back at Joker and then finally to her own raddled costume, only now noticing the three or four bullet holes in the tails of her coat and the absence of her bow-tie. "Fine", she said flatly, giving in to him. "But this is a one off, the key word in partners in crime is 'partners!", she finished grabbing the costume. Joker made a little 'yes fist' and skipped off to his suit rack with glee.

As he bounced off Ivory ran her hand along the costumes luxurious silk fabric and admired its construction, though doubted it would withstand the amount of damage and usage as what she was wearing now. Not that she'd be wearing it more than once that is, like she said, this was a one off thing. Despite this she did like the look of it, plus it carried on the black and white theme of her current costume, making it more appealing. She'd never been all that much into Commede de'll Arte, but if it had the word art in the title then she was down for it, momentarily amused by her own obsession with her persona. She'd have to remember not to take the piss out of the Joker so much for the whole clown thing, given her own monochrome disposition.

Joker watched Artist slowly inspect the costume and smiled, perhaps his new friend could appreciate a good image change after all. Not that he wanted to take anything away from her, it was more that he wanted to 'fine tune' her into something more . . .'Joker'. Though this wouldn't be hard due to the fact she was already almost exactly like him and a complete fruit loop. Silently chuckling to himself he looked through his suits, pulling one or two out only to put them back and pick out another.

"You do know their all purple right?", he heard Artist say, giggling as she now sat down, invading one of the many box's of face paints he had around the place. His smile intensified times ten as he at last pulled one out and slung it over he shoulder finitely. A classic dark purple with an orange waist coat and blue bow-tie.

"I know that, I was just looking for the right purple is all", he winked as he held it up to the light, "With the right suit you can do anything. A man in an ill-fitting suit is the saddest thing to see after all", he commented brushing imaginary dust from the garment's front.

Ivory left him in his room of costumes, returning to the small office, her new costume and a box of paint under one arm, her retrieved mask in the other, skipping a little as she did. Coming in she put them on the floor and quickly walked back to lock the door. Not that she expected Joker to be all creepy and a perv, but she wasn't going to make it an option for him either way. Hurriedly shedding her cloths off she felt clean and refreshed as she stepped into and zipped up the Pierrot style costume, moving about a little to check it was the right size.

Once happy with the fit she looked for something reflective to admire herself in, finding only a small pocket mirror in the top draw of the office's desk. It wasn't great but it would do and from the looks of things the costume suited her pretty well. She smiled in anticipation as she poured out the paint box's contents, small pots and sponges hitting the carpet along with a few brushes and water jars. This was the fun part.

Ivory leant down and started to re-paint her mask, beginning with the ruby red lips which she coloured over in black gloss paint. She then used the same colour to draw a single tear falling from the left eye, making it precise and perfect, just the way she liked everything she created to be. Once done she held it up in the dim light, admiring her work, blowing on the wet paint to dry it faster as she couldn't wait to put it on. Now everything about her look was black and white, from her costume to her hair, to her mask, to her pale skin. The paint dried fast and she balanced the small mirror on a shelf so that she could stand further back from it. Placing her mask on her face and running her hands through her wild hair she gazed into her reflection, weirdly not losing any of her intimidating aura in the clown suit she now adorned, in fact, though Ivory hated to admit it, she looked even a little more threatening.

She grabbed up her old cloths, folding them up and placing them on the sofa bed, removing from their pockets anything she might need, her gun, bullets, stuff of that sort. Placing them in the pockets of her new costume she left her old in the office. No doubt she would collect it later, she wasn't about to forget her origins now, Joker may have taste but he couldn't white wash her beginnings.

Making her way back to the large costume room hidden behind the containers she tried hard to control her twitching smile as she anticipated Jokers reaction to her new look. Poking her head round the side of the open container she saw him, sitting on a wooden stool, one hand resting on his cheek, the other lazily flopping on the floor. The seat in question was far too short for him and Ivory compared him to that of a sad marionette in his lose hanging form. He didn't look like he appreciated being kept waiting and wore a frown of frustration as he sat, only turning his head when he heard Artists subtle light footsteps entering the room.

"Took you long enough!", he said, a little seed of a smile beginning to sow. When he saw her properly it grew fully, as he gazed at his little friend in all her new clown like glory. Pleased very much with his new creation, or rather his part in their collaborated project, but he found it easy to take credit for the whole thing, it was his idea after all. "My my my, you do scrub up well", he said getting to his feet and starting to circle her, a little too much for her liking but she brushed it off.

"What do you think?" she asked, "I think I look kinda hot in a Ronald McDonald kinda way", she answered herself. Joker laughed at her frank comment as he circled her a little closer.

"Agreed", he said behind her catching her a little off guard, "Kinda hot", he said a little lower, his breath on her neck. And as if like a bipolar helium balloon he zoomed off out of the room, leaving Ivory to follow confused behind. Guiltily she had wanted to savour the feeling of having him paying so much attention to her, but it appeared he had other ideas.

She found him again, picking up a crow bar and opening one of the many crates that lay about the place, many of them stacked reminding Ivory of that scene from Indiana Jones where they archive the Arc of the Covenant. With impressive force he pried it open, its contents revealing themselves. Grenades.

"I've been waiting for an excuse to use these for ages", he giggled as he took one out and tossed it in his hand.

"Wouldn't have thought a guy like you needed an excuse", Ivory said staring into the excessive supply. She took one out to look at it. She'd never used one before, her experience limited to knifes and guns. Oh and of course fire, but never something so destructive. Her mind flashed back to the damage Jokers bomb had caused at the Channel 5 News tower and how exiting it had been to witness. Feeling a spark of adrenaline while holding it she could only fantasise about how she'd feel when using it.

"Well, you need to keep a few Ace's in the hall right?, a few tricks or two up your sleeve for when your board or just want some excitement". At this point he dangled the grenade by its pin and grinned as Artists eyes widened in a mix of worry and anticipation underneath her mask "Keeping your knifes close to your chest is the best way to play the game dear, don't try to be immune to them, merely let them be". Pulling the pin he threw it at Artist who in a panic threw it back at him. Roaring with laughter he threw it back and in turn received it from her again.

"Relax kiddo, its a fake . . . I think. I know one of them is anyway", he tried to speak between his violent laughing. It didn't go off and Artist shot him a look of anger but gave into the laughter building up inside herself.

"Well that sorts out the fake one", he threw it over his shoulder. "And this sorts out the fun", he proclaimed climbing up on top of a box to the side, reaching into the one above it and pulling out a baseball bat, a red and white sinister smile painted across its length. "I always did have a good swing". He swung the bat as if hitting a ball, his hand creating a visor for his brow as he pretended to watch the invisible ball fly. "HOME RUN!", he yelled putting his arms in the air.

Ivory laughed at his antics and Joker watched her try to keep her composure, fixing her mask which had slipped ever so slightly. "Would you care to join me in a game of grenade baseball?", he said, doing a small bow. Artist felt her whole body electrify at the request.

"Hell yeah I do!", her response brought him right up to her, Joker closing the space between them by holding both ends of the bat with her in the middle, giving him all the power to limit the vacant air between them. Joker had never seen someone more beautiful and demented as her, dressed in his style ready to play his game. He found it hard to control himself around her, but was sure it would be worth the wait. Until the final few mortar chunks of sanity and attachment where chiselled away. With her face obscured by her mask he wanted nothing more than to rip it off. It mocked him, sealed off his equals face with a wall of split identity. Thought Joker was sure she'd soon see things his way completely. One day she'd get rid of it and realise that hiding from the world in no good at all. He just had to wait.

His thoughts were interrupted by her hand grabbing the bat, her soft voice whispering, "But I getta go first!", she sounded excited. His smile intensified tenfold, pulling the bat closer and with it her. "Deal, but when we find the bulldozer I get to drive". He bargained.

"Deal", she whispered. Joker let go of the bat and Artist started to swing it about and skip, like a loony without their meds, (Which I guess is what she was). As she skipped away making tornado like spins with the bat she yelled to Joker.

"But I get to sit on your lap again", giggling she felt even more excited when Joker replied.

"Deal".

* * *

Just a note: Pierrot is the sad artistic clown from early Zani style theatre known as Commede'Dell Arte ('The Art Of Comedy', otherwise know as 'vulgar comedy'), who is a slave to his passions and whims, unlike his more stable and world wise friends who often envy his ability and take advantage of his child like nature. I thought to give Artist a Pierrot costume because it shows she is passionate but is partially being shaped and used by Joker, or will be in the future. The mere act of convincing her to wear the costume was supposed to show that the Joker is using her own taste as opinions against her to achieve what he wants, much like how Harlequin takes advantage of Pierrot in Commede'Dell Arte.

So um yeah . . . (Too pretentious and obscure?)


	17. Chapter Seventeen: Wrecking Ball

Chapter Seventeen: Wrecking Ball

Joker drummed his fingers on the wheel of the car, the slight rhythm failing to amuse him as he waited.

"You know this isn't nearly as fun as the last time", Artist said as her and Joker waited in traffic. Joker gave an overreacting exasperated sigh and turned to look at her. She was sitting on the front passenger seat, back leant against the window facing him, her feet resting on her lap as she made popping sounds with her cheeks.

"Trust me, with everything we've done to this city between us in the last month, keeping a low profile is a wise decision. Especially since bat boob will be in daytime mode no doubt". He sunk into his seat and lazily dropped one hand from the steering wheel to rest it on Artist's ankle, stroking it slightly.

"Worst date ever", she added, looking at her nails. Joker looked up at her again.

"Date?", he laughed, grinning, "I suppose it is really isn't it". He begun to move to her feet, knowing she must be ticklish.

She jumped from the sensation that came with it. Joker smirked and suddenly begun ticking her feet mercilessly, Artist leaning forward to whack him between her involuntary giggles. "Sto-p-p it HahaHa, you asshole!", she was only able to say half seriously.

"Thought you were board?", he grinned at her as he stopped, Artist retracting her feet quickly before he started again.

"I was", she said still laughing a little, backing away from him jokingly as he made a tickle gesture in the air at her. "Screw you", she said sticking her tongue out.

"Oh I wish you would", he mused and glared, receiving a hard kick in the chest from her. He brushed it off and smiled. He'd have punched anyone else for it, but not her, she got a free shot now and again. Though next time he knew he'd be a little less inclined, knowing all too well that his violent side was more temperamental than even he knew and that Artist was scratching away at it very slowly.

They sat in comfortable silence, waiting in the usual commuters traffic of Gotham Central Boulevard, the angry horns of those less content ringing out around them, the odd profanity thrown about here and there, but all to no avail. Artist looked out the window at the herd of people rushing by. An incredibly dark stained glass separating her from them. She smiled as she put her hand on the window, the black obscuring surface protecting those on the outside from the knowledge of the two psychopaths within, mere inches from them.

Joker watched her watch them with great interest, "I know right", he said quietly, no hands on the wheel now, instead positioned behind his head, legs crossed. "Ahhhh, what a perfectly normal day", he added staring at the cars roof.

"So bland", she whispered.

"So boring", he furthered.

"So . . . pathetic", she finished, a detestable tone in her voice Joker had not yet heard from her. He looked round at her again with her hand on the glass.

"We could always get out and walk", he laughed loudly and struggled to silence himself as he realised that people outside might hear him. He frowned and put a hand over his own moth, his chest making fast intakes of breath in silence, his face noticeably struggling to stay straight as he forced himself to stop all noise. When he felt he had accomplished this he put both hands back on the wheel and gripped it tight. "I hate having to do that", he said, now a little angry.

Artist just watched him with equal interest, "Not a bad idea", she agreed with him. "Though dressed like this", pointing out their betraying costumes, "I think we'd struggle". She moved away from the glass and sat more in the middle now, leaning on Joker's arm and staring out now from the windshiled, its view of the back of a garbage truck not in the least bit thrilling.

"Wow, acting normal sucks, can you imagine people actually willingly subject themselves to this every morning?". She moaned, removing her mask and brushing her hair back.

Joker just smiled slightly, "Yeah, I know what you mean, what a bunch of zombies", he drummed his fingers again. "Its funny really, Hollywood brings out films of brainless shells walking the Earth all the time, little do they realise we live in the Zombie apocalypse 24/7". He laughed, some very amusing images coming to mind as he spoke. "I mean if anything we just put them out of their misery, give them a little blood pumping experience before they cease to be". Joker put an arm round her.

She smiled, "Sounds so much more fun that it actually is, real zombies would be fucking incredible". They both laughed and eventually after an hour of waiting the truck in front finally started to move forward. Traversing across Gotham they ended up at a large construction site , passing, you guessed it. Bulldozers.

"Oh Oh Oh, that one, no wait that one. Wait. Look at that one". Artist said pointing to them, changing her mind as she saw larger ones with larger wrecking balls. Looking to cause major damage.

"Calm down my dear, I already know one you'd KILL to have a ride in", he said sinisterly smiling as he parked the car round the side of a building, hiding it from view. They both stepped out, Artist practically bouncing out like some overexcited puppy after Joker who shared her adrenaline for their little adventure.

It wasn't hard to break into the building site, Joker had brought along a duffel bag filled with useful tools like pliers and wire cutters, not to mention a god supply of the grenades from the hideout along with the smiling baseball bat. Stretching out the hole in the barbed wire fence he made a gap big enough for them to fit through, reaching back to grab the bag. Once on the other side he and Artist looked up at the skyscraper under construction, its colossal metal beams and scaffolding towering over the site. The early morning had a sundial effect and cast a shadow over the two as they walked about a little, Artist completely lost until Joker pointed her in the right direction.

"Only the best for my '_date_'", he emphasized, putting his arm round her as she fastened her mask. He lead her to a spot in the site that had a number of utility vehicles parked. Diggers, large cement mixers, cranes. But what made Artists pulse quicken was the glimpse of the gigantic bulldozer, looming over them. "Quick, we only have five minutes before people start showing up", Joker hurried her. She skipped up to it and touched its bright yellow painted metal, 'SIONIS INDUSTRY'S' written across it in bold black letters. She grabbed Jokers arm and hugged it, catching him a little of guard as he followed her up to it, taking the time to admire all the hard work the builders had done and taking pleasure in thinking about their angry faces when he blew it all up.

"Someone's happy", he said staring down at his fellow clown.

"This is like Christmas and my birthday all at once, like seriously, no one's ever done anything this cool with me before, or even wanted to for that matter". She said stepping away from him and climbing into the drivers seat.

"Ah ah ah", Joker said waving his finger at her. She immediately stopped and stared at him. "I always drive". He said, "plus I need to set up our distraction first". As he said this he put the duffel bag on the ground and took out four nail bombs. "Be right back my little adorable anarchist". Artist watched as he approached four of the other vehicles, placing the nail bombs under the seat.

Walking back he gave a thumbs up and picked up the duffel bag, throwing it into the foot well of the bulldozer. "Now scoot over Arty", he climbed up to the drivers seat, "your gonna need this". He handed her the baseball bat and she eagerly grabbed it. "Now careful with those grenades".

He climbed in and shut the metal door, the room in the control seat meaning Artist again found herself on Jokers lap, not that she complained. She had a baseball bat and grenades. Any sane girl would be happy. As the giant machine moved forward it rolled over the gravel of the building site and they both smiled as they trampled, crushed and scratched as many other smaller vehicles as they could.

"OOOOhh get that one!", Artist said excitedly as Joker veered towards one of the smaller bulldozers and toppled it over, its large wrecking ball slamming into the side of another, sending three or four of them falling to the ground like dominoes. "Yessss!", she said with her fists in the air with the baseball bat. She reached into the foot well for the grenade bag but Joker grabbed her wrist.

"Wait!", he purred, "That's for the main event, the fireworks if you will to our fourth of July celebration", he let her go. "Plus if we use them now we won't have them when we get to the court house, and think of all the poor innocent lives we then won't be able to destroy hmmm", he pulled a sad face, "All the little children who's daddy's will be coming home to them and all the people who will be usurped of their mental scars and PTSD". His grin was truly wicked, as was Artists which he noticed even under her mask from the upturned edges of her ears.

She however put her hands together in a begging motion despite this, "Just one, I just want to try it pleeeasseee?, for practice is all". She reasoned, wrapping her free arm around his neck and rubbing his opposite shoulder. Joker looked at her hand, then back to her, but he didn't respond the way Artist had expected. He looked a little angry.

"Ah I see!", he said smiling at her, but not in a warm or friendly way whatsoever, in fact it was quiet the opposite, "My mind is so easily changed by mere affections, as if I were one of them is that it", his lips curled as the pupils of his eyes got smaller, as if focusing so intently on her. "That I am a man swayed by the simple smile of a pretty girl hmmm?".

Artist shifted as she sat on his lap and looked away, " . . . no", she said quietly, withdrawing her hand. But something inside her felt confrontational, ballsy and fearless. "Yes", she giggled as she pinched Jokers cheek as he looked at her with a unchanging expression. And just as Artist prepared for the worst Joker roared with laughter.

"Well", he begun, "Your a real gambler when it comes to socialising with a loony such as myself. But you know what Arty?", his voice sounded venomous, "You make me laugh". He reached down himself and grabbed a grenade, slamming it into Artists hand and winking. "Make it a good shot, or I may have to turn this car around little miss", he said in his best mock parental tone.

Artists leaned out the window and spied a piece of scaffolding, built around a large far of section of the site. She brought her arms out and pulled the pin from the grenade and tossed it a little into the air, swinging as best she could at the explosive, sending it in roughly that direction. Score. It landed about just in from of the scaffolding and went of shortly after, brining down with it what looked to be a finished steel girder frame that made up the east wall of the first nine floors of the too-be-structure.

She laughed as Joker drove the bulldozer out of the locked gates of the construction site, smashing through them with force, the chain that bound them wrapping round one of the wheel guards meaning one of the ruined wire doors now trailed after them, rattling and scraping along the tarmac road behind them.

"Bonus point!", Artist screamed as she leant her head out the window, feeling the wind in her snow white hair as the vehicle picked up speed , far more than was safe in all honesty but to her that only made the trip more enjoyable.

Joker was an organised kinda guy, not that he'd let on that is, being his whole thing was chaos and anarchy and yada yada yada . . but this occasion was something which he had to congratulate himself on. For you see reader, the Gotham court house is located in the north of one of Gothams quiet city suburban area's, an area pretty close to the site where they were currently building a new mega mall, the kind of place where all sort of construction vehicles would be located . . and easily accessible. The kind of place Joker just so happened to have driven through the gate of and with which was currently trailing behind him. He mentally patted himself on the back as the Gotham court house came into view on the horizon of the crowded panicked street.

All the way there the Joker had been driving like, well . . a mad man, but that was to be expected. The cars around him had taken one look at the clown prince of crime and his fear induceing new comrade and skedaddled as much as they could in the confided road space. Some mounting the curb to the horror of the many fleeing commuters on foot. Eventually Joker decided to try and flatten one as he had at the construction site, siding up to one and turning violently so that the large wheels of the bulldozer climbed up the sides of a blue Prias and quickly crumpled in beneath the wheel. The screaming occupant reduced to nothing more than a red smear.

"That's a nice shade of red", Artist mentioned as she continued to wave her head around outside the window grinning. Joker continued to drive forward up the street towards their destination, crushing more cars until he decided to just crash into them, ramming them of the road and into the panicked mobs that resembled startled geese at this point. Due to such a short distance from point A to point B, the familiar sound of sirens had not even begun to sound of, despite the next car Joker crushed being a police car, who's siren sharply pierced the air but woozed out as it was compounded beneath the bulldozer. The officer in the passenger seat looked white as a sheet as he screamed into his radio, no doubt in the middle of alerting more pigs of the slaughter that was occurring.

"Be a dear and knock on the front door for me will you Art", Joker said as he continued in his destruction, now using the wrecking ball to smash the sides of the buildings lining the road, the glass panels of one falling through the air and onto the flocks of victims below them. The two psychopaths sat comfortably above it, yet were in the middle of it at the same time, kind of like a total immersion cinema trip with surround sound. It felt so real yet to Artist was like a fantasy hijacking her reality.

"Sure thing pal", She reached for a grenade and with the same home run swing hit the deadly device and sent it into the first left side pillar of the large stone structure. There were people on the wide steps of the court house who saw it fly through the air and looked on in horror paralysed with fear as it erupted and planted a sick ringing noise in the ears of those nearby, blowing the stone into even more shrapnel, killing and maiming many close to it it.

Although Artists was metres away there was a slight ringing, but shadowed by the Jokers now uncontrollable laugh as he now fast sped up and shoved another grenade at her, winking as he pointed to the other side. "Symmetry my dear, is key". Again she swung and the same scenes of violence and devastation followed, again and again as she threw more and more until the whole front of the building was scarred by the bombs. By this point the bulldozer was at the steps and the wrecking ball hitting the wall as it approached with a small and harmless tap that would foreshadow what was to come.

They halted as they both looked behind them. To the back of them was a trail of what looked like a scene from War of the Worlds, trashed buildings and cars, bloody trails of crushed victims and citizens of the Earth screaming and running. Some even hiding in the wreckages.

"Over kill much", Artist said her tone filled with her ecstatic rush yet a hint of sarcasm.

"No such thing Arty", he said as he grabbed her face with his hand, stroking under her neck softly, such stark black and white contrast to how he treated everyone else. She smiled at him. "Now wanna see something cool", he said darkly.

Pushing up the lever to his left and pulling across the lever to his right he swung the gigantic metal fist of the wrecking ball into the building, immediately those inside falling and running like ants in a disturbed hill. More screams now as those who took shelter inside now fully realised the maniacs intentions and their eyes widened with dread. The striking simple look of 'oh no the Joker', that every Gothamite had experienced at least once in their nightmares.

Artist frowned as she reached for another grenade, only to realise she was out. "Shucks kiddo, that sucks!", Joker yelled over the sound of his maniacal demolition. "Like I said, they go quickly". He pulled hard on the lever making another massive crumbling chasm in the court house. It was a big building, and he'd never mange to do the whole thing, yet still he felt it was polite to make an effort, didn't want to offend anybody.

Artist felt the jolts of the smashing reverberate back to the bulldozer and laughed with every crashing impact. Soon S.W.A.T, showed up, six large black bus's of armed officers driving up towards them and behind them, three on each side. Gordon and Bullock in a police car behind the line with a few senior officers. Above the sound of the demolishing they heard the commissioners voice.

"THIS IS THE GCPD, SURRENDER NOW OR WE WILL FIRE!", the distorted echo of a megaphone carrying Jim Gordon's voice over the rest of the less desirable sounds. Artist still had her head out the window and blew a raspberry as flipped the bird.

"Manners darling your upsetting our guests", Joker chuckled as he reached into the bag for something else.

"There's none left", Artist said as she watched him feel around in the bag.

"I know", he responded pulling out a black umbrella, "I brought more than just grenades you know". Artist looked sceptically at the thing.

"And what's that?", she shot at him.

"This thing?", he looked at the umbrella as if he was surprised she'd ask, "its encase it rains bullets". He responded smiling knowingly, yet all Artist could do was stare unsure at him.

"Trust me", he smiled again, this time a little less evilly, warranting her to nod, showing her complacency.

"I REPEAT, STEP OUTSIDE THE VEHICLE WITH YOUR HANDS UP, UNARMED OR WE WILL OPEN FIRE. YOU'VE BEEN ON THE RUN LONG ENOUGH JOKER, IT ENDS HERE, YOU HAVE NOWHERE TO RUN!", The sound of Gordon's voice interrupted them and Artist again stuck her head out the side.

"GO EAT SOME BRAINS YOU METAPHORICAL ZOMBIE!", She yelled at him, before again ducking into the inside of the cockpit. Gordon looked at Bullock confused.

"Their nut balls Jim, what did you expect", his partner responded in a flat tone.

"I AM NOW SPEAKING TO THE CRIMINAL KNOWN AS ARTIST. ITS NOT TO LATE TO TURN YOURSELF IN. JOKER IS A FAR MORE DANGEROUS CRIMINAL THEN YOU WILL EVER BE AND IS NOT A TEAM PLAYER. HE'S USING YOU AND WILL KILL YOU IF YOU STAY LIKE THIS", Gordon said trying to appeal to Artist rather than intimidate the Joker, which never worked.

Inside the bulldozer she watched as Joker produced three small black bead shaped things from his coat, about three centimetres across each. "What are those", Artist asked, eliciting a smirk for the clown prince of crime.

"Oh these silly little things", he said deliberately playing ignorant, "nothing at all, just evidence that batsy might want to seal his utility belt more securely, you know, encase someone were to well, pickpocket him". Joker wrapped his arm around her waist tight. "You ready?".

"For what?!", she asked confused and annoyed.

"To step out for a bit, I bought my umbrella after all encase it rains". He looked at her equally confused, as if she should understand his plan, if there was one that is. Truly it never crossed her mind that he was actually mad, not evil genius mad, but actually stupid mad, even a little bit.

"Are you crazy?!", she said feeling the danger now. Joker opened the door ever so slightly and pulled her a little closer.

"Bat shit crazy baby" he said before a thick grey mist burst out around them and she felt herself pulled out and the suddenly shooting up into the air, grabbing onto Joker as she felt gravity pull at her. Her confusion now magnified times a thousand as she looked around into the grey coloured clouds, an erratic feeling of uncertainly gripping her.

All Joker could do was role his eyes at her as he felt her panicking.

As Joker had opened the door of the bulldozer he had thrown Batman's smoke pellets out as well, blinding the surrounding cops who as you would have guessed begun to fire their weapons randomly at the cloud which obscured him and the Artist. This would have been a problem if not for fact that Joker had in his possession a very special item of the penguins, something he was sure his aviary obsessed friend would be most upset to discover. His 'unique' umbrella. As Joker and Artist climbed into the sky, the mad man was sure to keep pressure on the small button at the end of the handle, as the propeller turned and rushed them away from the heart of the cloud and the storm of the bullets below.

It was truly a sight to see, if you could have seen it that is. Like some bizarre Mary Poppins fantasy the Joker and Artist were whisked away from all danger beneath, even as they made it clear of the smoke cloud, remaining unseen. Below they heard the commissioner voice angry and laced with fear.

"FIND THEM!", the veteran of the department screamed into his megaphone, "FIND THEM, SEARCH THE AREA THEY CAN'T HAVE GOTTEN FAR!". There was a ringing as the roaring tool was switched off.

Cops immediately scoured the area, from above the two assailants could see the S.W.A.T teams manoeuvring around their stolen play thing, the giant bulldozer. Along with this and as they climbed higher they saw the full extent of their destructive 'date', the ant like forms of everyday people squished in their cars and along the pavements, the bashed in and destroyed front of the court house which now had police cars surrounding it, the smoke only just clearing to reveal Gordon marching around barking orders. The streets they had been down were a sight to see, the area around the court house impressing Artist with what looked like an areal map of their sandbox, from the construction site to their final destination, a pathway of death and thick red brush strokes that highlighted their more sinful deeds. It was perfect, so very perfect. Artist forgot her fears and her panic left her as she admired what she had played a part in.

"I know right", said Joker from above her, his hand tightly grasping hers as the umbrella finally stopped climbing, Joker steering it to the side sending them north, no doubt heading back to base for now. The wind rushed past them in roars and made it hard to hear what he was saying.

From this hight they could almost see the whole of Gotham, which surprised Artist as it looked far nicer, less dirty even, like polished model, maybe even rivalling Metropolis. "She sure is beautiful from up here", she yelled above the noise strangling wind. Joker chuckled in reply.

"Yeah", he yelled, "she sure is. And you know what, I think we just made her that little bit more prettier". Joker laughed, letting it out as it dominated the space of the sky they occupied, rising above the wind, scaring it off it would seem. Joker was cut short however by Artist tugging the end of his jacket. "What?", he asked.

She pointed far below them at a busy street, the road in particular, "Look!", she exclaimed, "traffic". This sent them both into fits of laughter as they became nothing but a dot in the city's skyline.

Gordon paced the scene, the lengthy and truly horrifying scene before him. Ambulances and fire trucks peppered it like some poorly applied whitewash, the blood seeping from the crushed cars already sending nine officers running to the alleys to throw up.

"Shit", he swore under his breath, as he passed a woman being strapped into a stretcher and rolled into an ambulance. He couldn't comprehend it. Oh wait. Yes he could. This shouldn't be something that expected, only in Gotham could this be normal, this devastation which pushes the very definition of the word to it most extreme limits.

"I know your there", he said a little louder, his back to one of the adjourning alleys, the dark cloaked figure of the Batman stepping out slightly.

"Jim", he said in a husky voice. "I came as soon as I heard, I've already searched the area, no sign of either Artist of Joker. I've sent up the bat plane to scout an areal view, but I doubt anything will show. Joker planned this well".

Gordon remained silent.

"I'll find them Jim, they'll face justice I swear. Nobody else is going to get hurt in the name of their sick games. Nobody!". Batman's words fell like leaves on the ground in this sorrowful silence, occupied only by sirens and screams of which seemed to fade as the two good men stood on the brink of this terrifying ordeal.

"You said something similar at Arkham all that time ago Batman", Gordon said, his voice firm but deeply saddened. "When Joker escaped and left those . . . poor guards desecrated and brutalised and-".

"Jim I-"

"NO!", Gordon howled back at the vigilante, "You listen to me!", his voice betraying his anger and frustration, "I know your only a man Batman, I know it as well as you do, but that's not the point and it never has been. The point is you can get things done, I've seen it. This is not the first time the Joker has done this, neither will it be the last. And Artist- I don't know- is this a new kind of trend now. 'Who can be the most psychopathic'. Do you attract them Batman?, these mad contenders in your fight for the city's soul", his voice calmed a little, "I trust you, more than most of my own officers, more than any official. You are, in many ways my authority, my source, my help, my ally in this our shared fight for what is right. But . .", his voice faltered, "What happens when not even the Batman can stop the madness, when it runs through our city's streets hurting those we swear to protect. What then?". Silence returned.

Batman's voice was different this time, as if he'd allow himself this one small spark of emotion between himself and his long serving friend. "Then we hurt the madness back", he said angrily, "We find it and we tear it down from its throne, we throw it in a cell and tell it that we run the city, that we are stronger. Because Jim", his emption faded, "We are stronger that it will ever be. No matter what the cost I promise you, not only as a friend, but as this city's protector. I will find Joker and Artist".

Gordon only turned as the vigilante begun to sink back into the shadows, "Batman wait!", he raised his voice once again. The vigilante stopped and turned. "By the book Batman, I want this done by the book".

Batman nodded, "Yes Jim, always". And with that he was gone, disappeared into the growing evening dusk.

* * *

Night was drawing in fast as Joker slammed open the door to the hideout, "Honey I'm home", he joked as he shut the door behind him, locking it. Artist merely rolled her eyes. They had gotten back ages ago, yet Joker insisted on walking a few times around the block to make sure they hadn't been followed, not to say his conspicuous appearance wouldn't lead to any trouble either.

"Darling I want a divorce", she laughed and joked back staring at him as he approached, "I'm taking the kids, the dog and the creepy circus themed hideout". As she said this she tried to hide her smile.

Joker laughed as he wrapped an arm round her waist, French dipping her, "But my dear, what about the car?", She looped an arm round his neck and grinned as her face drew closer to his.

"You can have it, though be warned it may have a few bullet holes in it", she kissed him and he kissed her back, neither really planning it, yet neither really bothered by it or wanting to stop it. Joker revelled in his latest endeavour, this zany and spiky personality laden mad brethren of his. She would be fun to have stick around.

As they parted Jokers grin warped into a dark smile, "Why my little Artist, I'd rather kill you than let you walk away", he brushed a gloved hand down her soft neck as he tightened his grip. Although Artist didn't much seem to care, looping her other arm round his neck too.

"Not if I slip cyanide in your morning coffee first". She winked at him, his smile only intensifying.

"I hate coffee", he almost growled, though in a more amused pitch. She giggled and didn't protest as he begun roughly kissing her neck up and down, sending strange sensations through her. After a minute or two she brushed him off, or at least tried, trying to stop her own laughter.

She was taken aback when he suddenly stopped and looked at her with a very serious expression. "We have to go", was all he said dropping her. She bumped to the ground landing on her butt, a undignified expression crossing her unmasked face.

"What?", she said confused, recovering her composure.

Joker was almost sprinting to the hidden costumed area of the hideout, though took the time to yell back. "We have to find somewhere else to stay for a bit, just encase we were followed or tracked somehow. I don't want anyone finding this place, but if the do I'd rather not be in it". He disappeared behind the curtain and poked his head back out moment later. "Grab what you need and lets get out of here".

"Where are we going?", she asked still sitting on the ground.

Joker shrugged his shoulders, "I dunno" was all he said before promptly disappearing yet again. Artist sat up and ran to the small office like rooms, grabbing the black duffel bag which had carried the grenades. She stuffed inside it her old costume and the face paint she had used to customise her mask. Of course she left inside the bag the Penguins umbrella, I mean how useful was that (The most convenient of plot devices). After a look round she ran back to the main space of the hideout and waited for Joker, who emerged soon after her with another duffel bag, no doubt full of extra suits, guns, bombs and God knows what.

"Ready kiddo?", he asked as he approached hand in pockets, bag slung over his chest.

"Who you calling Kiddo 'grampa'", she stuck out her tongue as she begun to put on her mask. Joker faked his shock.

"I'll have you know I'm only 28", he said in all honesty. Artist cocked her head and folded her arms. "Your 'cheerful' complexion makes it difficult to tell" she jabbed at him again. Joker pulled her closer and towered over her, leaning down a little like he just above head hight to her.

"A classic guy like me is timeless", he smirked running a hand through his hair like some Olay model. Artist punched his lightly in the shoulder and he stopped and stared down a her as he rose to his full high, yet his shoulders still slumped lazily. "Anyway, I'm still a full ten years older than you 'kiddo'", he used that word again to annoy her, "So when I say, 'ready kiddo', I'll think you'll find I'm being naught but accurate". He pushed as he stroked her hair in a sinister manner. She was silent for a second.

"Whatever you say '_grampa_'", she finally giggled much to his displeasure and yet amusement, skipping to the door and waiting for him to follow. He shook his head lightly and did so.

_I'm going to kill her I swear it, but how I'd miss having her around, _He smiled lightly.

* * *

Bruce slammed his mask down on the control board of the bat computer. A new found determination and vengeful blend coursing through his tired and used up body. But this fuelled him with an angry fire, a fire to keep going. He begun to switch of the bat panes tracker and searched the areal recording of the city's air space to find . . . nothing.

He threw the chair aside in a fit of range and it echoed throughout the cave.

"Sir!", Alfred exclaimed in his descent from the mansion. Watching his employer with a worried and keen eye. "Whatever is the matter". Pennyworth feared the answer to this question, after all he was an avid news watcher and the days events had not gone unnoticed to him. In fact he already knew the answer but asked anyway, bowing to traditional etiquette.

"Him Alfred, Him". Bruce practically yelled as he pulled up the Jokers file,adding to it the news reports of his latest spree, a small message coming up informing him he needed to make the file larger as it could not hold the capacity of media that it no doubt already held. That was it, Bruce was so emotionally drained he sat on the floor and leaned against the control panel clenching fists.

His butler approached, "Get up", he said, an paralleling that of his army days. Bruce looked up at Pennyworth. "I said get up Sir, this city is getting nothing from you wallowing in self pity". It was harsh, but true and Bruce rose to his feet.

"Thank you Alfred, I don't know what wrong with me". He rubbed his temples.

"Tired sir, your tired, over come with your duties and lack or rest. I would suggest sleep but I am in full knowledge you will do no such thing at this time of crisis so I will proceed to make coffee, then edit Jokers file to include more memory. Meanwhile you will continue to search for this lunatic and his degenerate friend until you find them. And when you do" he continued, "you can fix that chair and take a shower". With that Alfred marched off back to the mansion. Bruce watching his faithful comrade carry out his small yet vital duties. Vital to keeping Bruce sane.

He turned to the computer and watched some more of the footage of the sky's around the area . Some of te aftermath of Jokers carnage caught on the tapes.

_He's trying to show off, _Bruce thought to himself_. But not to me, or to Gordon, this is a new kind of strategy for him, that is if he ever did have one to begin with. It's like he's still trying to out do Artist, despite what appears to be a truce. Its almost like he's trying to assimilate – no that's the wrong word. Combine?, no. Merge her with him, destroy any possibility of challenge. Is Joker really that worried about losing his crown?_

Bruce zoomed into CCTV footage of a building near the scene, watching it all play out, or at least what could be seen from the cameras view. He watched the pixelated images as Artist pointed to a car in front of them, Joker then crushing it under the bulldozer laughing.

_Joker doesn't take orders, that was a request, a sick one at that- but why is he indulging her, why not kill her? I guess it makes sense to partner up with someone who is of equal ability to you, but Artist is physically weak despite her many mental similarities to Joker. They may share some warped world view, but Joker would know more than anybody that she could easily be killed or done away with. So why keep her around? What he doing? What does he hope to gain?-oh._

Bruce felt a little chill as a different way of thinking about the Joker crept into his thoughts.

_Is he . . flirting?_

* * *

Okay yes, I know, its been aaaggggeeeessss since I updated and for that I am sorry (not sorry). I am still going to finish this story, but school and other commitments mean it's not really something I can spend a lot of time on, meaning updates will be a lot slower.

But fear not, this story is far from ove


	18. Chapter Eighteen: More Than Flirting

Chapter Eighteen: More Than Flirting

_Five years ago_

_New York_

_Chateau de'rouge _

_Ivory sat at the table, her legs and arms stiff as hands gripped the bottom of the seat in her nervousness. Around the decorated room with its tall windows and lavish chandeliers, soft music played, the kind all these fancy restaurants did, though she was thankful for it as it made the silence just that little bit more bearable. There was also hushed chatter, though to Ivory it was the loudest roaring there had ever been and the snide laughter of the dinners was driving her insane as her palms grew sweaty and the roaring rose to a scream. Suddenly the restaurant was alive with ear bleeding sounds as food was chewed in open mouths and blond woman giggled at unfunny jokes made by old men past their time. It was unbearable, a complete hell as she tried to sit composed. A waiter read out the usual wine list a table away and a blundering man with a thick mustache and an entitled accent stood up and berated him for his mispronunciation. Knifes slashed through meats and then dug by sharpened forks that ripped like a nail on flesh, into the mouths of the beast around here, scales obscured in priceless suits of status. The sound of claws scraping, teeth chomping, metal ringing-_

"_Ivory?", said a woman, glaring at her in an angry manner. She had the most awful shade of crimson lipstick, a face like an eagle, with a kind of hooked nose, a tan far too dark for her complexion and blond hair the shade of orange juice. Her enlarged breasts perched at the top of a white dress that barely left anything to the imagination and which squeezed her starved frame like a Chinese finger trap. "Ivory are you even listening to me?", she repeated in a shrill tone, her thick jersey accent haunting Ivory's ears more than the sounds of the restaurant. _

_"What?", Ivory spat back staring into her stepmothers mascara smudged grey eyes. _

_Donna was not a smart woman. That is she was not well educated, not like Ivory was, no. Donna was a much different kind of person, a different kind of smart. She knew her own mind and that there was very little in it which could afford her any real skills, however she knew how to survive. That survival currently took the form of leaching off Ivory's father, a man twenty five years Donna's senior. _

_Ivory detested this kind of person, those superficial social scabs who had no real purpose of passion for anything. Unfortunately for her this was the only company she kept. _

_"Don't speak to me in that tone young lady!", Donna's attempts at parental authority were lost on the younger woman. Ivory stared blankly at her with no emotion. _

_"Your not used to silence are you?", she asked genuinely and a little amused, "You never mind me day dreaming unless I'm the only one around to talk to, in which case it bothers you". Ivory rested her chin on the palm of her hand. "Is it, I wonder, because you have no thoughts of your own to occupy your tiny brain? Or that you really are stupid enough to think I have an interest in talking to my dads latest whore?"._

_Donna gave a furious glare. "Bitch!", she practically spat. She hated it when Ivory talked to her like that, that pompous sense of betterment she had. Donna labeled Ivory as nothing more than a psychopath with a superiority complex, but that didn't stop her stepdaughters words burning into her like a mark on cattle. _

_Ivory smiled proudly when Donna stood up to go smoke in the ladies toilets. Finally some peace and quiet. _

_Her father often made her and the step-monster have dinner with him. It was his way of striniging the family together with weak invisible tether. Harold White, though a rich and distinguished man, did not know his family. A weakness that many like him would never realize. _

_Just as Donna was returning, her father appeared at the door, directed to his table by a nearby waiter. Harold's face was well recognized here. Ivory sighed. _

_From her pocket she produced a small mirror and smiled. _

_Time to play happy families . . ._

* * *

Waking up from her memory, Ivory felt a hand trail down her makeup stained face. She opened her eyes and let them adjust to the darkness around her. In it she could make out the jagged lines of Jokers green hair and the shape of his head looming over her while she lay there. Though she could not see it she knew he was smiling, his teeth captureing what little light there was. His crocadile smile actually made her feel safe, especially when considering recent events.

"Boo!", was all he said.

"Do you have any idea how creepy that is right?". Ivory had been able to conclude rather easily as most of Gotham had at this point, that Joker had an issue with boundaries. He seemed amused by the awkward reactions people gave to such invasive treatment of their physical bubble and seemed to delight in defiling there space. In this sense he was more a wasp than a crocadile.

"Of course, why else would I be doing it?". He grinned a she swatted him away and rolled over. They had been hiding out in Ivory's apartment for two of three days now, the aftermath of their little field trip becoming headline news, calling the two the 'Clown prince and princess of crime', 'The thin white Duke and Duchess of death', and her personal favorite 'Arkhams newest poster children'. Though, if things go her way she'd never see the inside of that wretched place. Ivory had no idea how Joker bared ever going through that torturous institution.

The past few days had been rather relaxing and pleasant. She would go about her usual business painting and the like and Joker would do his usual scheming. He had found out where she kept the paper and the permanent markers and had begun planning what looked like a candy-floss and razor blade themed world war three, her walls plastered with plans and blueprints, some which she struggled to read.

She found it easy to work around him, though they did have a little fight when she joking flicked some paint onto his suit. He had taken that far worse than she could have imagined. Looking over at a blank canvas with a hole punched through it she reminded herself not to do it again. It seemed minor torment was a one-sided thing with Joker.

"Awwww, your not scared of lil'ol J are ya?", he jabbed when he saw her staring at the ruined canvas in the far corner of her bedroom . "I just got mad is all, these suits aren't easy to come by, being that no one wants to look like the city's resident psychopath", he chuckled at that, "I ain't going to hurt you Art, after all, I have the patience of a saint". He said this in a mockingly innocent voice. As she tuned around he put his hands together in a praying motion and looked down at her eyelashes fluttering.

"Jesus probably throws up every time you do that", she remarked dryly. She tuned back to him as he begun to laugh freely. Joker had been sleeping on the sofa during his stay, but it had so far been untouched. He didn't seem to sleep that much and when he did it was sitting down at the desk or on the floor where he had been working. The temptation to draw on his face was hard to resist. Every time she thought about it she remembered her poor canvas.

"HaHaHaha", he said, his laugh seeming deeper and sinister, yet still like a reflex or tick. "I'd hate to think what the other stuff I do makes him feel". He was sitting cross legged near her head. Looming above like the moon staring down at the earth. "What was my little doll dreaming about hmmmmm?, Daisy's?, Flying?, Murder?", He leaned closer, "Me?". His grin widened in the darkness.

"None of your business", she said grinning herself as she turned away from him yet again. She felt two hands grip her waist and turn her around. Once staring at him again he grabbed her neck. Not hard at all, but firmly.

"Tt Tt Tt", he said leaning closer, "I hate not knowing". Ivory was amused and didn't panic in the slightest. She grabbed his hand and shoved it back at him with force. He smiled and let her go.

"You're lucky you're you, y'know". He said still not moveing away, just watching her like a piranha. He would strangle anyone else in this situation, but not her. Usually he'd be a predator, but Ivory seemed to be at ease when the monster under the bed sitting next to her while she slept. He liked it too.

"What do you want, I'm sleepy Joker?", she moaned as she stretched out under the covers. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by an elaborate frown.

"I'm just bored, I cant stand having to stay here so long. Not that its not a lovely place and all Arty, but I'm a creature of the outdoors". He proclaimed while folding his arms.

"Great then sleep outside", she grumbled, pulling the covers over her head, forming a wrapped up ball.

Jokers frown became real, "That is clearly not what I meant".

"Whatever!" was all she said as she wobbled in annoyance.

All was silent for a bit before Joker burst out laughing, his roaring making sure Ivory was not going to get any sleep. She threw the covers off and over him, making him appear like a trick or treater in a cheap Halloween costume. He stopped, though through the cover he was still spasming with the sensation of it.

"Ha . . He.. . HAHEHA". Was all she heard underneath. She placed her hands on her hips and she kneeled up in front of him, am unamused expression on her face and light bags under her eyes.

He grabbed the covers and threw them off only to resume his laughter, this time even louder. Ivory was confused for a moment before looking down at herself. She usually slept in her underwear when she was too tired to shower or put some PJ's on. Jokers presence in her apartment had not changed that, especially since she had a lock on her door, which she still had no idea how in the world he had gotten open.

"Well well, now I'll never get to sleep". Joker managed to get through his laughter, his voice deep and insinuating.

Thinking quickly she looked around for her duvet and saw it was on the floor beside the bed. Before she could grab it Joker pushed her back. Despite it being just a tap, their size difference made it seem more forceful.

"Hey!", she said annoyed and upset.

Joker grabbed her waist again, but this time more forcefully as he pinned her down and stared into her disgruntled face. "Shhhhhh", he said, no longer laughing. "You'll wake the neighbors". He chuckled.

"Oh, so the neighbors get to sleep but I don't", she fumed at him. She pushed at him but it was clear it had little to no affect. The wall of muscle above her didn't let up for a second.

He rubbed one of his bare hand up and down her waist roughly. "Not now you don't. I'm going to have to think of some very creative things to keep you up". His smile had something different in it this time.

She caught on pretty quickly, but wasn't opposed to the idea. However she was annoyed at him for waking her up. But then again, her dream had been a bore, perhaps he wouldn't be.

He kissed her, a hungry almost desperate taste to it. Closer now she felt the various jolts and spasms of his silent laughter like little earthquakes or electric shocks. With her hands on his chest still it was like violent vibrations, contagious yet comforting to her, different from any embrace she had ever had.

A hand left her side and wrapped around her back. There was no fiddling as he suddenly tore her bra strap, forgoing any gentle approach. The feeling of his hands was new and exhilarating as he threw it aside to maul her chest. She buried her finger nails in the fabric of his purple shirt and moaned, causing more tremors from within his chest, no doubt an amused reaction to her sudden change of heart.

His mouth moved to her neck and he could hear her heavy breathing. Joker felt a sense of achievement. Since he had first seen Artist in the Gotham Gallery he had coveted her like she was a glistening oasis and he was a man dying of thirst. Everything about her was like him and he desperately wanted her completely, her mind. body and soul. Though tonight admittedly it was mostly her body.

For so long he had stroked her hair, her face, her hand, but the feeling of the soft skin of her stomach, her breasts, her neck, was addictive and he wasn't sure how he had held off for so long. Most likely it was out of respect and admiration, but such things only went so far for him. One can have no idea what it is like to live in a black and white world and finally find another colorful individual and have them be do hypnotizing to you, to the point where you begin to worship them in your head and see them the only thing worth giving a damn about.

For Ivory she took in all he gave, slowly unbuttoning his shirt and running her hands all over him as if she was checking he really existed. They didn't see the others, but they both smiled, this time one of pleasure and complete joy, the first of many.

"I wonder how Jesus is feeling now?" Joker paused to tease in her ear. Ivory laughed only to suddenly pause and moan as his other hand trailed down under her pants and those 'creative things' he had mentioned earlier finally became real.

* * *

The calm before the storm was rising and Bruce could feel it. The illusiveness of the Joker and his prolonged vanishing act were aspects of the clown prince of crime which made him all the more dangerous. It infuriated Bruce that the lunatic could cause such monumental damage, yet remain unseen and slip away like a shadow, contrasting his loud and obvious appearance. Nothing made sense about the man, nothing at all. How could such chaos be so fucking organized as to disappear completely of the radar. Madness was one thing, Joker was another.

Alfred seemed to be giving his master some space and Bruce was thankful for that. Only in these quiet moments of peace and silence could he really think, really see. He had begun with searching all Jokers old hideouts and even locations of other villains he knew, but it had all bee to no avail. Batman had even bashed in Weskers front door again, only to again confront the frail man and receive nothing for his efforts.

Bruce had concluded Joker and The Artist must be residing in a new location, perhaps a hideout of hers which is off the grid to his database and the GCPD's. This was more likely than not, her reign of terror having been recent and out of the blue. This he knew, having looked through criminal databases, searching for a similar description or criminal past. Nothing.

Nothing seemed to be a common theme. He massaged his temples. He needed to find something to show Jim, something that could be of use. In the corner of his eye he could see a current news program on a far off monitor. The usual sunshine attitude of 'Goof Morning Gotham' was hours away. It was the show that calmed people down and made situations look far better than the reality, a beautiful lie to relax a panicked city. However, that was very different from the constant rotation of night news and, 'Gotham Tonight' had so far covered the Artists and Jokers separate and committed offenses in great detail to the point where they were running out of things to say. It had gotten so dry they were asking random people in the street what they thought. A guy dressed in a Starbucks uniform, a homeless woman, a group of college girls, whatever.

The media eats up crime like flys on candy.

He was about to knock the monitor of when it begun to rerun footage from the Channel 5 terrorist attack a little over a week ago. It was not the realization of how close these attacks had taken place to the latest that caught his eye, but the look in Jokers as GT ran the helicopter footage taken as Joker held Artist out the top floor of the skyscraper by her lapels. Bruce sat up.

"Zoom in on monitor nine". As he said this the main screen turned on and the footage was blown up. "Pause", he said again. "Enhance by forty five percent". A large low quality picture of Joker holding up Artist appeared. The news helicopter had not taken the best shot and it was from a distance, the figures of the two lunatics were originally very small in the footage, but when blown up Bruce noticed something he had not previously seen.

The Joker looked ashamed with himself. Bruce was sure, the way he was looking at her suggested guilt, his frown was one of an apologetic nature.

"Play", he said intently watching. The audio played and the news caster talked on but Bruce was hawkishly watching Jokers face as he pulled Artist back inside the building.

The incident was something he had seen in previous footage, yet never really looked carefully at before now.

"Replay from fourteen minutes to sixteen on loop", sure enough as he said it the footage looped between the two times. It allowed a full spectrum of emotions to be exhibited by the lunatic.

Joker was talking to himself, his eyes showed anger and control but something within him disagreed. He mouthed something along the lines of 'But does what I think even matter'. His face was not a smile, it was serious and angry. Bruce could tell something was wrong. Jokers indiscriminate killing was being interrupted by something, something within his own mind. It wasn't mercy, his intent gaze spoke of familiarity and admiration and Bruce watched as a strain ran across his face, not of Artists weight but the power it took to override his basic instinct of murder. And for what, . . . friendship, love, whatever she meant to him meant a breaking of his powerful ego and mental pattern.

Bruce had been right before. Joker had been flirting with Artist, there was something more occurring between them. As the footage played again and again Bruce saw Joker was unable to kill her. Never had he seen this before, Bruce had previously thought Batman was the only person the Joker would never kill, but that seemed to have changed.

Come to think of it, it had done a long time ago. The Gallery, Channel 5, The bulldozer incident. None of it had been done to draw out the Batman. Usually when Joker committed a crime he hung around to taunt him and gloat, but lately Joker had been reserving that for Artist, showing off to her not the Batman, as if Joker no longer found him 'fun'.

Bruce leaned back to ponder this new development. What if Joker had found someone else to express his twisted hobbies with? What if the Batman no longer had a tether to Joker as he did before and all vivid connection between the two was lost. The Joker was becoming a stranger, a stranger who is hard to understand even more so now.

He sat back, breathed out. If he wanted to find them, he'd have to look for Artist and that was going to take some work since according to the criminal database she didn't exist until three months ago.

Bruce could hear Alfred's footsteps and dismissed the footage. It was going to be another long night.

* * *

It was between night and morning, one of those lazy times when the sky is darkish Grey and black of night drains away to reveal rolling mountains of clouds over a horizon of buildings reaching up to touch it.

Ivory's curtains were only half drawn and the little dim light that seeped in made her feel relaxed and at ease, this being one of her favorite times, this and when the day begins to slip back into the shadows.

She rested her face on Jokers shoulder, his long arm wrapped around her and resting on hers, his other over the top of her and resting under her ass possessively. He was fast asleep and she smiled as she closed her eyes and snuggled back into him, feeling the same intense emotions she had once before earlier that night. She giggled to herself at the thought of what they had done and the sensation of lying next to him, both of them so vulnerable and not caring at all.

Her body ached a little, it had been her first time. She wondered if it was always that good or weather she was just easy to please. Her ego said otherwise. Roughness had been a key element to their sexual encounter, but Ivory would not have had it any other way and had expected such a thing from Joker. She'd given as good as she'd gotten and next time she'd have more bite to her.

She reached up and stroked a pale finger over his cheek and along his smiling scar. This didn't go unnoticed. Joker woke up staring straight at her like a shark looking at a little fish. "Hello beu-tifil", he said melodically as he clutched her tighter. They kissed through their smiles and he wrapped his left hand in her hair and his right hand between her closed thighs. He was still reveling in the fact she was letting him touch her in this way. No one else had ever had her like this and he was going to make sure no one ever did. She was his, and he knew it sounded controlling when he said it to himself. But their connection was convoluted and his possession like treatment of her was not the pedestal like admiration which it seemed. Yeah, he wanted her all to himself, but only because he knew there would never be another her.

"Morning, I'm glad you finally let me get some sleep", she said softly trailing her hands down his chest. He growled mildly and kissed her again his grip on her hair harder now.

"I'm glad you stopped me from being bored", he growled in her ear. The two remained in the blissful state for a long time. It was only after lunch when they got out of bed.

Joker did up his belt and begun looking round for his purple shirt. That's when he noticed Artist re-enter the room wearing it, probably with nothing underneath. Suddenly he didn't mind so much and raised a green eyebrow at her and a smirk.

"Comfy Arty?" he asked arms folded.

"Very", she grinned. She held in her hand a dark red wooden box.

"What's that?", he asked sitting on the bed and pulling on his green socks. Ivory moved towards him and sat on his lap, Joker happily wrapping an arm round her as they both looked at the object Ivory held in her porcelain hands.

"I think its time for you to meet the family", she said, stroking his forehead and staring into his confused and intrigued toxic green eyes. For once her smile was much bigger than his as she slowly opened the dark red box.

* * *

Okay, I know its been ages (Like, I've grown old and my dreams have turned to dust type ages), but I'm back, A-Levels all finished and I'm ready to write. (Until the clutches of University in September capture me forever inside a fanfiction-less cage).

But trust me (I know, I know I said that last time), I am going to give this and ending and I have plenty more to write. (Third time lucky).


	19. Chapter Nineteen: Pandora's Box

**Just a short **word before you read this, I know that mental illness is not something to be glorified or celebrated. This is obviously just an artistic expression and a work of fiction but I still feel it is relevant to mention that mental illness is a serious thing that many people deal with and though it is often romanticized, the reality is nothing of the sort.

I don't mean to be patronizing to anybody and I am well aware that all you reading this already know this and understand this, I just wanted people to know that I do to and that the presentation of mental illness in this chapter is that very same romanticized and inaccurate representation I previously mentioned.

Please enjoy this late update.

* * *

Chapter Nineteen: Pandora's Box

_Five Years Ago_

_Ivory awaited her fathers response, though she feared she would be waiting a long time. After all grief goes that way with some people. Her father was the sort of man to lock himself away in sorrow. He had hidden away behind the thick oaken door ever since it had happened, his study his mausoleum, his desk his chained pillar, his books his only source of distraction from the horrors of reality._

_Ivory saw it as oddly poetic in a way. Harold White never usually the dramatic type was now mimicking the bereaved lovers in his cherished books. The enraged Antony, the broken Romeo and the jealous Lysander. Ever the romantic Shakespeare fanatic her father, always painting life as if it were a renascence play, the hero, the heroin and their tragedy. In this sense, he and Ivory were not so different._

_But to Ivory, Donna had never been a Cleopatra or a Helena, certainly no Juliet. She wasn't beautiful or smart and had never even understood the plays which Ivory's father pooled over every evening. Donna was a leech which she had taken great pride in stepping on._

_It had been three months since Ivory murdered her and her father still grieved like the idiotic old man that he was. Ironic really considering when Donna was alive all he would do is treat her like a sex object and ignore her. Ivory knew all her father really wept for was the idea of his dead wife, not for who she actually was._

_Finding her lying at the bottom of the stairs in a pool of still warm blood must have shocked him somewhat. Ivory had never understood grief or sorrow, so his emotions seemed alien to her. She could still see Donna now, her shocked face, her hot pink heels rolling down the steps after her one by one. An odd cracking sound as she hit the marble floor, orange juice hair soaked red within minutes._

_Ivory knocked again and shifted the framed canvas in her arms as if it seemed to grow heavier over time. "Dad?", she said in her best worried tone. She has always been good at playing the innocent loving daughter. Over these last few months she had faked her affections for him, the role of the doting young girl who cared for those in need. This fooled her father as much as it did everybody else. Especially the police. Ivory could slip in and out of characters as if their mental skin were a cloak. Her father was the most susceptible to this behaviour and she took her time practicing her craft on him._

_"Come in", she heard behind the door, a thick barrier that represented the distance and difficult plane that separated the real Ivory and her father. She entered carefully, slipping into his study as she maneuverer the heavy door and the canvas._

_Harold Whites study looked how you would imagine it too, her father was truly a romanticist for the ways he chose to present himself and his surroundings. The dark oak shelves were covered in leather bound books, three windows far in front of her that paralleled the large fire place behind her, ornately carved with the shapes of leaves and vines. Her fathers chair loomed over his wide desk littered with piles of books and the little work he had done since his wife 'passed away'. The back faced Ivory, her father facing the window, the only proof of his existence the pale hands that laid lazily on the arm rests and the white and grey hair that poked up from the top edge._

_"Hello darling", he said defeated in expression. He turned around and faced her, his blue eyes lined with dark circles and bags that fitted in with the creases and wrinkles of his face. At forty six, Harold White was aging faster than he should. "Forgive my absence Ivory, I know I've been distant lately"._

_"That's okay daddy", she said smiling, her fourteen year old dialect wrapping around his heart, her words making her seem so much more frail and innocent. "I just wanted to show you something to cheer you up is all, I know how upset you have been lately. I've been trying to deal with it in my own way too". She looked down at her shoes and sniffed a little, wiping her left eye with the sleeve of her hoddie. Her fake tears causing a real one to run down her fathers face._

_"I started this a few days ago, but I wanted to wait until it was finished to show you. I wanted to make it perfect". She walked closer to him and placed the canvas on the table so that it lent up against a pile of books. With one swift movement she removed the sheet to reveal her masterpiece._

_Even a master of art would have to admire Ivory's brush work, her accurate detail and familiarity with the features of the human face. Her father looked into the painted eyes of his dead wife, but rather than the grey dull tone that stared back at him in reality, a shiny beautiful gaze watched him. Her tanned brown skin was a light colour, complementing her dark blond and lushes hair. Her lips a dark red and her makeup subdued, paint blended upwards to make her appear less harsh and more mild, the hooked nose she had had in life, now flat and straight._

_Harold White was in love with the idea of the image of his wife, not who she really was, and Ivory had given him what he wanted. A memorial to who her father wanted Donna to be._

_"Ivory", he begun shakily, reaching out to stroke the frame, "I don't know what to say", his eyes could not leave the paintings, hypnotized by their life like quality. "This is wonderful dear, its like looking a photograph only so much more"._

_She would have rolled her eyes at her fathers blindness, but held in the urge. She instead walked around to her father and placed her hand on his shoulder, rubbing it in a comforting motion, much as she imagined one would with someone they care about._

_"You are so patient", he breathed out, placing his hand on hers, "With an old love starved fool like me for a father". He had since taken his eyes off Donna's portrait. "You may have the White family appearance, but you sure do have that Valentine spirit"._

_Ivory felt her hand shake slightly and her blood ran a little colder at the mention of her mothers family name, a genuine sadness filling her heart. Her father feeling the shudder in his daughters hand, mixed with his own regretful clenched jaw made him trip up on his own words._

_"A-Anyway", he interrupted her pang of loneliness, a little embarrassed at his slip of the tongue. "I'm sure you would love to get back to your work, you truly are mastering this talent of yours. . . ", he trailed off, head bowed away from her eyes as if avoiding them._

_Ivory gave his shoulder a small squeeze, though it conveyed only false comfort, which her father would always fail to realize and misinterpret as genuine love._

_Genuine love. Now there was a cosmic joke if ever there was one_

_At least that's what she thought as she exited his study and closed the door behind her._

_She walked thorough the extensive and luxurious kingdom that was White Mansion. Towards her room, barely acknowledging as she usually did, the fine family portraits that lined the walls of the corridor to the West wing. Many blue eyes and white haired relatives from decades come and gone, watching as their latest child wandered through their empty home._

_She reached her haven and collapsed on her bed, pulling her knees to her chest and closing her eyes. Her room was large. A triangular window shedding moon beams across the hard wood floor, along her canvases, easels and furniture, stopping at the foot of her bed as if even its pure light would not dare touch the creature curled up on the black sheets._

_Ivory remained like this for a while, just thinking._

_'Valentine spirit'. huh._

_Ivory had not heard her father mention her mothers family name in a while. Her father was reluctant to talk about it and for good reason. That name carried a ferocious weight in this house like a bad scar, the name Valentine seemed more like a curse on her fathers lips, a poison, though one that is sweet like honey and deadly like acid._

_She rolled over, hair whipping over her face like a veil, a darkish blue eye peering out the window from between her locks._

_Ivory knew the story very well. As a younger girl her father had been reluctant to tell her, but she had found out eventually. The entire Valentine family was mad, what kind of madness, she did not know. It was never clear why such a rich family like her mothers had never sought out professional help for their disposition, baffling everyone around them. Wealth seemed to protect them, their behaviour and unconventional personalities guarded by their status._

_It seemed every generation had it, like a family heirloom, passed down in the bloodline. If you were a Valentine, you had it, even on some small level._

_She had to think hard to remember the name of her uncle, Warwick Valentine, who at the age of fourteen was institutionalized against his and his family's will._

_Yes, it was true they were in denial of their illness and everybody knew it, even her father. When Harold White and Janessa Valentine met, could arguably be the point at which both families met their downfall. An affair, a secret marriage and one child later, they were both forced upon each other. And madness and logic don't mix well._

_The Whites hated the Valentines, Ivory's mother spoken of as if she were a pestilence upon their home. Even when Ivory was born, Harold Whites parents belittled her, even going as far as to suggest she be sent away, institutionalized like her brother. She would not be separated from Ivory, Janessa had always had more love for her child than Harold, the Valentines or anybody else._

_It was the 5th December 1999 when Ivory's mother murdered her fathers parents with an Axe in a fit of rage, committing suicide that same night. Despite this dagger in his back and the stealing away of his own mother and father, Ivory's father adored Janessa Valentine._

_The woman who had murdered his family, his own wife, he could not hate. Some speculated that Harold White's delusion and denial of his wife's crimes were detrimental to his ability to parent and Ivory had almost been removed from his care twice. But even in his powerful grief, her father had fought to keep her, Ivory was all that was left of Janessa, the only piece left in the world of the living for him to hold on to._

_The Valentines had turned their backs on Ivory and her father, blaming Janessa's actions on him and his meddling parents._

_Her father, when pushed, had never said a single bad thing against her mother. He was obsessed with her memory, who she had been, who he had wanted her to be. Janessa was the first woman Harold White had even done this to, and since then had continued to do to every other woman in his life. A repeating pattern, where all negative aspects are translated into pleasant attributes. Even the betrayal of murder, could not make him fall out of love with Ivory's mother. This was the mark of his trauma._

_That same small chill crept up Ivory's spine. It was an unfamiliar emotion of sadness and loneliness that only ever came forward when she thought of her mother and yearned for her to wrap her caring arms around her like a mother would their child._

_Her mother was the only person Ivory felt any love for, purely because she suffered from the same madness, the Valentine madness. 'The Valentine spirit'. Ever sine she was young, Ivory had known she was different to other children and as she got older she matured into something far from what others her own age did._

_Between Ivory and her mothers memory was a sense of familiarity and kindred ties._

_She rubbed her hand up and down her arm, imagining her mother lying beside her, cuddling her, cradling her head and singing to her as she had done when Ivory was barely a year old._

_Ivory remembered having terrible nightmares when she was younger,_

_After an hour had passed, and the night was in full commencement, only then did she get up. She adored working at night, feeling like a vampire._

_'Edgy', she mocked herself as she waltzed over to the far corner of her room. There stood an old wardrobe that had been there even before Ivory was born. Opening the light wooden doors she was met with a wall of clothes. She smiled as she pushed through these, feeling around until her hand brushed the back panel._

_With a minimal amount of pressure it swung back from its closed position. Ivory shut the wardrobe doors behind her and stepped through her clothes and the back panel into a dark open space. Feeling around on the wall beside the secret door, finding the light switch._

_When her fingers touched it she immediately flipped it on, illuminating the hidden room._

_It was smaller than her bedroom, but still fairly big, and barely furnished. That is apart from the paintings. Lining every inch of each wall, all the way up to the high ceiling. The majority were in a traditional style, but depicted a range of imagery from black and red demons to simple landscapes, with a few abstract experimentations dotted about the place. Unlike her bedroom, the paintings were framed as if to make a small personal gallery._

_There were no windows and the light that illuminated the room was dim and came from a small glass chandelier, the coated it dust, cast light that was only as bright as it needed to be._

_However, what was most notable was the six portraits that hung in the center of the wall facing the entrance. They depicted the most grotesque interpretations of the human form, so much so that not even Ivory's artistic talent could make them any easier to look at. The realness of their deformity was unsettling, even to Ivory._

_They were humanoid, but twisted beyond recognition of relatable form, their eyes darkly tinted, their hair scarce and thin, skin like burnt paper, peeling away to reveal dark red streaks underneath. Ivory had taken great care to paint these, they were her most private and complex works._

_Stepping towards a small table, one of very few pieces of furniture in the room, she ran her nails as if scratching, along the lid of a dark red wooden box that sat upon its surface. It was about twenty eight centimetres in length and twelve in width. She admired it with pride and desire before unhinging its silver latch and flipping it open._

_The interior was black velvet, and worked as a bed for the six brushes that it housed. She picked one up to admire it, its pitch black copper hairs, forming a neat point with which to paint. The hairs were fused to the white wooden body of the brush with silver, making a very elegant tool indeed. The body was inscribed with black letters, similar to the font of an old type writer._

_'Natalia', was all it said._

_She placed it back in the box and withdrew another of the same style, though this time, the bristles were red._

_The inscription read 'Elizabeth'._

_This was the same for each as she slowly took them out one by one to admire them._

_Light brunette bristles, 'Lisa'._

_Dark brunette bristles, 'Maria'_

_A dirty blond shade, 'Rachel'_

_. . . And last but not least, bristles of the most horrendous shade of blond, 'Donna'._

_She ran her thumb over the bristles, feeling the damaged hairs. Ivory silently cursed Donna for not having treated her hair better, it made it very difficult to paint with indeed. However she forgave this as she looked at the newest addition to her collection of grotesque creatures, a hag like creature with a hooked nose that was horn like and jagged, with beady eyes like a stormy sky and a mane of orange strands._

_She smiled to herself as she gazed up at all the sister paintings she had created, one ugly one for every beautiful one she had presented her father with. Harold White had had many wives, and Ivory White had had many victims as a result._

_Their audacity to take the place of her mother was sickening to Ivory and one by one she had gotten rid of them and would continue to do so._

_Placing Donna's paint brush into the box and shutting it once again she breathed out slowly as her heart begun to race. This always happened when she got 'the rush'- or at least that's what she called it. Her chest would pound and adrenaline would shoot through her like wild fire. It was hard to control._

_Ivory had only really realized the extent of the Valentine madness when she had claimed her first victim, her fathers second wife Natalia, a truly pathetic woman, who's record was only recently beaten by Donna._

_The two of them had been swimming in the outside terrace pool and all of a sudden Ivory had grabbed her and pushed her down, holding her under as she wriggled and writhed like a snake being crushed. Ivory had no idea where that strength came from. At the time she had been ten, far to weak to drown a twenty nine year old women, yet somehow she managed._

_The others followed in similar circumstances, each one becoming more and more of a choice than an uncontrollable urge, but no less satisfying for her._

_Her heart beat slowed and she decided to begin preparations. Soon her father would give up his melancholy and no doubt some new gold-digging slut would throw herself at her father. Ivory wanted to be ready to add to her collection._

* * *

Joker stared intently at the fine and expertly made paint brush in his hand, letting its perfect centre weight rest entirely on one finger. He admired her craftsmanship and eye for design. He focused on it as he listened to her tell her story, completely wrapped up in her words.

"Hair!", he thought to himself in amusement. Artists momentous were beautifully made, far more creative than the common serial killers stolen earing or severed limb. No, she had made art with them and out of them. It was too much, he smiled like a proud teacher looking upon a prodigy pupil.

Artists voice still drew his thoughts as his listened like an intrigued kid at story time, hanging on her every word.

"But I was wrong", she said, her tone falling to an annoyed stop. Joker forced his eyes away from the paint brush. "There were no other women". She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear as she ran a finger along the edge of the open box. "My father, for whatever reason was not so keen to throw himself back into married life".

"Six dead wives tends to do that to you", Joker interjected, twirling the paintbrush in his fingers. Artist snatched it away and placed it back with the others. "Tetchy", he said, clicking his tongue as he watched her slam shut the lid and place it on the bed beside her. She stood up only to be pulled back onto his lap forcefully. "Awww, I'm only joking kid, c'mon, tell J the rest".

His grip tightened and his green eyes burned into her like acid as if tying to pry her past out of her himself.

"Like I said, there were no more", she continued, "And so I had to find . . . others". Jokers eyes only seemed more curious and his demeanour had not changed. He gripped her as if she were some kind of book he was reading, roughly turning pages as he pleased.

"I see", he said, his voice somewhat knowing and deep, a different kind of amused tone. "What kind of others?", he hissed. Artist shrugged.

"Pretty much anyone", she admitted, "In the beginning I felt like knowing them made them more worth the kill, but I soon realized that it was I who gave them worth, that only through my art did I really make them anything more than empty shells". She eyed Joker and his growing smile that was slowly covering his entire face.

He tilted his head to the side and admired her, enjoying whatever this moment between them was. "What about the old man?", he inquired, pushing further into her past like a sharp object into soft flesh. "You said you had no real love for the man, so why not kill him huh? Or did my little doll get all sentimental?". He teeth flashed like lightning in his smile, Artists face however was blank.

"I needed him", she spoke as if it were obvious, "I couldn't inherit his estate or his money until I was 18, it was necessary not to hurt him until then". She smirked and narrowed her brow, "But his time came soon enough and he looked just as surprised as you'd imagine".

"I bet, his innocent little daughter murdering him in cold blood", Joker added scraping his teeth against one another as his grip tightened. "How'd you do it?", his voice now dripping with suspense.

Artist wrapped an arm around his neck and used her hand to trace up his smile, her nail harshly digging into him a little as she came to his cheek.

"Not telling you", she whispered, digging in hard. Joker clenched his teeth while sucking in air, though his smile did not disappear. Instead he pulled her leg around him so that she was straddling him, his grip so tight it may leave bruises.

"I don't like secrets", he growled, running his hand up her leg roughly.

Artist grabbed Jokers hair in her fist and clenched hard, pulling his head back and staring into him as he was doing to her. She used her free hand to plunge her nails into his back, wrapping her arm around him. "Tough", she whispered into his ear. She could feel him already spasm with laughter, his entire body roaring with laughter. She felt him harden underneath her and herself fill with a twisted desire.

"HaHaHaHAHa!", he practically screamed. Artist felt it happen so fast she couldn't say how, but she found herself slammed onto her back, staring up at Joker. He leaned down and kissed her, suddenly and more like an attack. Artist bit Jokers lip but that only seemed to encourage him. She wrapped her arms and legs around him as if holding on for dear life as they continued to kiss. Terror and lust seemed to blur together as she relaxed in his arms. She purred a little as he begun to pull away, only for her to pull him back.

They stayed like this for a few minutes, both enjoying the other. Joker begun to undo the buttons on Artists shirt, deliberately slowly, making her moan into him with frustration. When he reached the last fastened button he was interrupted by the sound of a doorbell buzzing.

"Ignore it", she said softly, running her hands down his chest towards his belt.

It rang again, this time for longer.

Artists rolled her eyes and groaned out of annoyance. Joker helped her up and she quickly jogged out of her room and towards the front door, quickly buttoning up some of her shirt as she lent up on tiptoes to look through the peep hole.

Joker stood in the doorway of her room, leaning on the door frame. He had to lean forward slightly so as not to hit his head. He watched her obsessively, like a cat would a little bird.

Looking through the peep hole, Artist saw the fish eyed distorted form of Bruce Wayne. She went as white as a sheet and her eyes shot towards Jokers. She shooed him away with her hand, a gesture that was wasted as he remained in the door way.

She unlocked the door, but left the latch chain on, opening the door and poking just her head into view from behind it.

"Hey", the billionaire said, "Late night?", he asked, drawing attention to her bed head and disheveled appearance. Ivory looked at him expectantly, her expression blank.

"Can I help you Mr Wayne?", she said in a flat tone.

"Please, Bruce", he insisted. She remained silent. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?, the gallery gave me your address".

"Actually I am kinda busy", she said, Joker glaring through the door at the billionaire for interrupting them.

"I'm sorry I just dropped by to say that I'm not going to be at Wayne manor for a while", Ivory looked confused. "It looks like I'm gonna be busy with a deal for Wayne Enterprise for the next week or so and I didn't want to forget about restoring those old paintings at the manor". He reached into his pocket and handed her a small set of keys. "I've told Alfred to allow you to come and go as you please, don't know how long it takes to restore a painting so I just thought it would be easier to leave it to the expert".

Ivory reached out and accepted the key.

"Wow, really not your colour", Bruce said, his expression changing from confident play boy to something Ivory hadn't seen before. She looked down at the purple sleeve, mentally scolding herself for not throwing something else one over the top of it.

Oh well, plenty of people own purple shirts. She thought as she stuffed the key into the shirts breast pocket.

"I like it", she said combatively, "It brings out the best in me". Her comment gave Joker a wicked smile, but he seethed at the billionaires opinion.

Bruce's face seemed less cheerful as if a façade has fallen. "That reminds me", his voice less refined and collected, "There was something else I wanted to ask you".

Ivory felt her palms go sweaty as she gripped the side of the door.

"You know a lot about art, well obviously", he stumbled, "I was wondering if you knew anything about more unconventional schools or groups which deal in more violent subject matter?".

"Developing a taste for more blood thirsty paintings?", she jabbed in a friendly manner. Bruce looked serious. Ivory thought for a moment, "There are plenty of sculptors and artists who use those kind of themes, perhaps you'd be interested in the works of Zdzisław Beksiński?"

The billionaires eyes looked more concentrated and less relaxed. "Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of any in Gotham currently, y'know, like a group with members or something. I'm trying to track down an artist of a piece I own", he lied. "They have a certain type of style that's . . . controversial, and I'd rather not advertise it that much cause, as you might already know, the press loves a good 'Billionaire is closet murder porn addict' headline".

Ivory thought hard, not quiet sure what he expected her to know.

"Nevermind, I just thought I'd ask is all", he place both hands in his pockets and nodded her farewell. "Goodbye Miss White, I hope I'll be seeing you again".

"Same", she lied as she closed the door as the billionaire turned to walk away.

"Same", Joker mimicked, looking irritated.

She walked up to him and placed her hands on his chest, cosying into him. "Don't be jelly", she teased.

"I'm the Joker daring, I don't get 'Jelly'". He reassured her, looking up and leaning on the door frame still.

"Jelly", she whispered ever so quietly. With one single motion he pushed her up against the wall, grinning.

"Jealous of that smug rich prick?", he said rhetorically, "Of course not". His laughter laced with a sarcastic anger, "Actually I am, I could only ever wish to be as boring and conceited as he".

Artist started to giggle at his reaction. "Awwww", she cooed, "You know I only like guys like you", she said reaching out to touch his face, her hand grabbed by his and pinned back against the wall.

"Oh really cup cake", he growled. He ran his hand through her hair. "Is that so?"

"It is", she smiled, wrapping one of her legs between his. Joker lent down and kissed her, feeling her smile with every movement.

"Now", he breathed into her ear hungrily, "Where were we?".

* * *

Bruce stormed down the halls of the apartment building, his mind ablaze looking for new leads or clues. This had been one in a long line of many dead ends. He came to the foyer where Alfred was waiting for him, dressed in his drivers attire, flat black hat and black long double buttoned coat.

"Anything of use sir?", the Englishman inquired as his master strode purposefully towards him. Bruce gave him a desperate look of stress and determination and the Butler, without hearing him say a word, knew nothing had come of their trip. "I see", he said more to himself than his young master as he looked down and retired the Sudan keys from his front pocket.

Walking out into the Gotham daylight, it was clear the entire city was in a sate of terrified petrification. The usually busy mid day streets were occupied at best, the roads lined with parked taxi's no one was around to hire. Oddly, it was a pleasant day, more sunshine than usual and a fresh breeze blowing about the buildings and in between them like sand between toes.

Both men entered the Sudan and the car moved of into the clearer than usual road.

"They're holding the whole city hostage", Bruce said quietly. Alfred gave him a glance in his mirror and observed his master looking out the passenger window, lost in his thought of the insidious nature than encircled this case. "I can't remember the last time things were so bad", he added, looking at Alfred's eyes in the front car mirror. "Actually I can", his voice was deeper and more Batman like, as if he had slipped into it subconsciously. "It was years ago, Alfred. Do you remember?".

"Sir?", Alfred questioned.

"It was just after the Joker had killed Black Mask, the original one I mean", he stared into the dark tinted windows at the near empty streets of the passing shopping district. Bruce thought about when he'd first encountered the Joker and how the madman had defied every qualification for humanity that existed. It had taken an entire month to bring him in and lock him away in Arkham, only for him to break out again two days later. Joker was to thank for all the height tech security that existed throughout the asylum, each new design made to foil an escape he'd already made.

Bruce's jaw was tight and stiff, his eyes hard and focused and he watched his memories like old movies on a screen. Scenes from some bygone age when he and the clown were younger, their story a simple one of two adversaries at odds, an ideological rivalry though chaotic seemed simple.

This new injection of insanity from Artist had thrown this relationship, if that's what you would even call it, off balance and into uncharted waters. Joker no longer existed to push the Batman's buttons, but to instead impress his equal. Bruce doubted this would last though. Artist could be a phase, a shiny new play thing for Joker, a toy he would tire of eventually. He hoped.

Once inside the batcave, Bruce stared at the files littering the floor around him as he knelt over them, meticulously scrutinizing them for all detail. In one hand he held a tablet, searching international crime databases for similar homicides, in the other the scanning device from his utility belt. He was staring at the results of the finger print left behind at the crime scene in the Narrows, Artists first crime.

Identification: Unknown

Duration: 6 hours - At the time of scan initiation.

External element: Gasoline, plastic, rope fibre, sugar, glucose syrup, coco bean.

He watched as possible matches compared and disappeared on the screen of the tablet, turning up nothing, Bruce was about to suit up for patrol when he heard the tablet beep. A hopeful, solid reassuring beep.

The screen in small green writing above the finger print analysis read, '1 match'.

* * *

Sorry for the late update, my computer broke and I wasn't able to upload. Plus I wanted to re-write Ivory's back story to make her seem less fragile and more shit-scary. Let me know what you think. Thanks for all the awesome feed back ;)

Btw check out Zdzisław Beksiński, he's one of the most talented and interesting painters ever. Seriously.


	20. Chapter Twenty: With Friends Like These

Chapter Twenty: With Friends Like These.

Arnold Wesker hurriedly packed his suitcase, stuffing in crumpled shirts and all other manor of possessions. He didn't bother to fold the clothing, nor evenly disperse his books and other belongings, he merely shoved them in there, pushing them down to make room for the rest of his things. Grabbing a small wooden box from the bedside he jammed it in next to his socks and toiletries, a clear bag with only the basics.

"Why the rush", Mr Scarface's voice emitted like a creaking floor board. The puppet sat on a chair that stood by the bedroom door, small black fedora leaning over its scratched eyes, a white marble one gleaming from beneath where the sinister puppets red and black scar ran across it oaken face.

"We have go go quickly sir", Wesker said out of breath. "Before he comes back". The small bald stout man was wearing a white undershirt and light brown suit pats held up by dark red, worn suspenders. One suspender had fallen off his arm and snagged on a nearby draw handle, pulling it open, the contents littering the floor. He immediately fell to the floor, grabbing them and stuffing them inside a new suitcase, bed sheet after bed sheet until almost all of them were scrunched up inside the brown leather bag.

"And which one would that be? hmmmnn", the wooden tone mocked, "The clown or the bat?". Mr Scarface's voice was a mixture of a stern school master and a bar room chain smoker, croaking yet authoritative and laced with all kinds of detestation.

"Either Mr Scarface", he huffed out between gasps of breath, "Either", he repeated, "We have to go away, far away, where they won't find us, somewhere where we can be alone, where we can have peace and quiet and safely and-

"Calm down you buffoon!", Scarface's voice echoed in Weskers head. The small man stopped and stared at the puppet, sweat dripping down his worried face. "The bat isn't our problem, at least not now of course, no, he's far too busy chasing the clown and that new masked freak of his. He probably hasn't even thought of us since he last came here you moron".

Wesker seemed a little less tense, but his eyes darted about the room, checking he'd gotten everything. Scarface, saw this and sneered with his frozen carved face.

"Jesus man, if the clown comes back, you let me deal with him. He's my number one client remember, he may be insane, but he's real smart, he doesn't fuck with the things he needs in order to wind up that bat of his, who the fuck do you think told him where to find that bulldozer in th first place, Roman Sionis himself?", the puppet glared as Wesker zipped up the two suitcases. "FUCKING STOP!", the puppet screamed, Wesker jumped and scrunched his hands into the bed's duvet and he awkwardly slumped down on his knees before the the puppet. "STOP WITH ALL THE FUCKING PACKING, WE'RE GOING NOWHERE Y'HEAR!",the puppet seemed to stare right at Wesker, its single white eye peering into him with a fierce force.

"S-s-s-s", Wesker begun, "S-s-s-sorry s-sir", he finished, looking down, adjusting his glasses as he remained kneeling before the puppet, like it were some godly idol. Wesker turned to unpack the suitcase's but Scarface stopped him.

"NO!", he roared, so hard Wesker had to cover his ears, "DID, I TELL YOU TO UNPACK". Wesker looked scared and confused. "I know where we're going my friend, oh, I know where we should go".

"W-where?", Wesker said meekly.

The puppet was silent for a bit and continued to stare. "Do you remember our old friend Arnold?, Donnegan?"

Wesker went as white as the sheets he had packed. He grew more nervous at the mention of the name and the weight it carried on his conscious.

"Oh come on Arnold, surely you remember old Donnegan, I certainly do". The scar on Scarface's face almost seemed to grow deeper in the diminishing light and consuming shadow of the evening. "Been a while hasn't it . . .".

* * *

_Fourteen years ago._

_Black gate_

_Cell 132H_

_"WESKER, I'VE TOLD YOU A HUNDRED FUCKING TIMES NOT TO TOUCH WOODY!", his cell mate screamed, pushing Wesker harshly against the cold brick wall. "IF I CATCH YOU LAYING A FINGER ON HIM AGAIN, I'LL BREAK YOUR JAW AND BOTH YOU KNEES BOY!". Donnegan stalked around him to his bunk, pushing aside his other puppets, both those complete and those still being carved. "DON'T TOUCH WOODY!", he screamed one last time, snatching up the puppet from where it lay on the ground by the bunk._

_"S-s-s-s-sorry D-d-donnegan", Wesker said timidly to his cell mate. He kept his back against the wall encase there was another outburst. Wesker moved slowly and sat on a metal chair on the other side of the cell, in a place where he would spend hours a day just watching Donnegan, watching him work on his puppet, watching Woody with an insane compulsion._

_He'd never talk much unless spoken to, as was Weskers nature. He'd just exist during the day, and move to his bunk during the night. In the night, of course, was when things changed._

_"Arrrnnnooooooolllllddddd", a familiar voice sung. "Arrrrnnnnnoooollllldddd", it sung again to him. Wesker lay on his bunk as he did every night, eyes shut tight, arms wrapped around himself._

_"Why do you let him hurt you Arnold? Why do you let him get away with it", the same voice sung in a seductive, soothing tone._

_Wesker turned his back to face the cell wall, Donnegans snoring echoing through the darkness._

_"Lllloooookkk attt meeeeeee", it whispered. "LLLLooooooooooookkkkkkkkk aaaaaaaaaaaatttttttt mmmmmmmeeeeeee"._

_Wesker slowly turned to face the rest of the cell, his eyes darting about in fear. He could see in the shadows, the chair he always sat on during the day, his place in Donnegans world, silent and still like one of his puppets._

_But there was something on the chair. Woody._

_"Look at me Arnold, see how sad I am. I'm sad like you, sad because of him Arnold". Woody's two white marble eyes glistened in the small beam of light from a lamp outside the cell, casting a dirty yellowed light over the puppet._

_"I can't talk to you anymore Woody", Wesker whispered back to the inanimate object. "He'll get mad if he hears us". The puppet remained motionless for a while._

_"I don't want Donnegan as my friend anymore Arnold, I don't like him very much. You don't like him very much either do you. Do you Arnold". The puppets melodic soothing voice was the only affection Wesker had received since he'd been sent here, its soft whispers at night had been the only thing keeping him sane during his time behind bars. Wesker shut his eyes tight and turned to stare at the ceiling, ignoring Woody as much as he could._

_"We could be friends Arnold, we could be together if only he weren't here", Wesker scrunched his eyes shut hard and put his hands over his ears._

_"No Woody!", he exclaimed, only to grab his mouth with his hand and bite his fist as he felt Donnegan shift in his sleep on the lower bunk. The noise, seemingly passing over his unconscious sate._

_"You could do it Arnold", whispered Woody. "You could do and nobody would blame you. You could do it now, now while he sleeps, now while you can"._

_"No, no, I'm not listening", Wesker re-enforced, clutching his ears so tight his nails left marks._

_"You have to Arnold", Woody encouraged. "Listen Wesker, there's a tunnel, a tunnel beneath the bunk, a tunnel to the boat house. Donnegans been digging it for months. We could take that tunnel, just you and me. We could be free. You from this place and me from him. All you have to do is take care of him". Woody's words wrapped themselves around Weskers brain like a spiders web around a wriggling fly._

_Wesker looked at the puppet sitting there in the dark, its bright blue suit and friendly red tie, matted by the yellow light and the shadows. It's matted flat cap pushed back to show a crafted scalp with furrowed brows almost like a frown._

_Wesker looked above Woody, to where more puppets hung on a makeshift harness made from old rope._

_"Clever boy Arnold, very clever", the puppet said as it read his mind and shared his thoughts. "Now, do it now Arnold. NOW!". The puppet was the silent as Wesker slowly got down from his bunk. And crept towards the puppets. Very slowly and gently he begun to remove them, one by one until he could untie the rope from where it clung to an old pipe._

_"Yes Arnold, yes . . .", he heard Woody's voice coerce him and encourage him._

_Wesker stepped over to Donnegans bunk, holding the rope firmly. He looked down at the beast of a man below, lumbering muscles and cheap tattoos. How had his hands been so skilled as to create puppets as fine as these he would never know. His breathing was loud and rugged and his thin black hair stuck to his forehead like rats tails. Wesker hesitated for a moment as he weighted up the likelihood that the man would wake up._

_"Now, fast, now, before he wakes!", Woody voice pushed with bloodthirsty persistence._

_Wesker positioned the rope around Donnegans neck and pulled. The man awoke in terror and fought the tightening grip of the rope. Wesker had to put all his meager strength into maintaining the hold, but was far to small and weak to compete with the other mans strength. He felt the rope, ripped from his hands, the coarse surface leaving deep burns in his palms. Donnegan arose from the bunk and for a moment blocked the faint yellow light, a black enraged shadow looming over him. There were only a few milliseconds before Donnegan was on him, punching and bashing him in the head, in the chest. Wesker scrambled underneath like a worm in the mouth of a bird. Wesker looked around desperately through his blurry vision, as Donnegan brought his fist down upon him yet again, beating his face with his stone fists like a hammer to a nail, pounding and pounding away._

_Wesker felt his hand touch something, a craft knife laying by the pile of puppets. He brought the short blade to Donnegans face and shoved it into his eye. The man screamed and wailed in pain as crimson ran down his face like a tide of angry tears. He pulled at the blade that was stuck in his eye socket, giving Wesker time to stand and franticly search for something to defend himself or finish the bleeding man off. Pushing Woody from the mental chair he smashed Donngan in the back as he knelt on the floor, desperately trying to dislodge the knife. He screamed again and Wesker was sure the guards would have heard them by now._

_Donnegan finally got the knife loose with another painful wail. He ran at Wesker in the small space but Wesker ducked and he crashed into the wall, the hand with the knife embedding itself in the eye of his favorite puppet, Woody. He arose, the craft knife still embedded in Woody's face. Wesker made for the fallen chair in an attempt to pick it up again and finally end this. He gripped in hard and swung it around, right into the head of Donnegans charging body, knocking him out._

_Wesker brought the chair down upon his head again, and again, and again, screaming as he did it. Wesker let out all the years of resentment and hatred for Donnegan, one piece at a time as he smashed in his skull, leaving nothing but wet chucks smushed against the concrete floor._

_Breathing heavily he dropped the chair with a clatter. Ready for the guards to come running in any moment and subdue him. But none came._

_"They heard alright, but they think he was the one beating you, hurting you", Woody spoke from his position on the floor, craft knife protruding from his wooden form. "Quick before they discover otherwise". Wesker ran over to Woody._

_"Oh no. Oh no. Oh no", he said rapidly, pulling the knife from the puppet with as much strength as he had left._

_The silence was a signal to the guards that the fight was over and to go collect the dead body of the loser and haul it off to the prison morgue. Their foot steps could be heard echoing down the hall. "Quick Arnold, the tunnel", Woody reminded harshly. Wesker took one last glance around at the cell, the dead body of Donnegan, the bent metal chair, the pile of puppets, the craft knife dripping with blood. He leaped over to the bunk, Woody cradled in his arms like a child._

_Sure enough there was a hinge and the bunk lifted up to show a dark black chasm, a hole leading into the earth. As the guards foot steps grew louder, Wesker disappeared down the black void, into the tunnel filled with darkness, no light yet visible at the end. And the words, "Well done Arnold", echoing throughout his head. Wesker stared back at Scarface, terrified and weakened by his tormented memories._

* * *

"Snap out of it man!", Scarface screamed. "Like you said, we need to get going hmmnnn. I know a place no one will look, a place we can retreat to, a place where we can start to rebuild our empire!"

"Our . . . empire?", Wesker inquired.

"Yes Wesker, a new criminal empire, like the one we had before Batman showed up in this shit hole city. One stronger and more ruthless than Black Mask, more vaster than Maronie's, more cut throat than The Falcon's or anybody else. Don't you see Wesker, this is our chance to take Gotham by the balls, and slice them off in a single slash". Scarface glared at Wesker, " The Batman is more distracted than he's ever been, and others will have noticed this too, we have to act fast or risk loosing the upper hand". Wesker stood shakily.

"Round up the rest of the gang Wesker, we're heading to old Donnegans workshop, trust me, that bastard had everything we need, hope it's still there. He was one for some trouble, trust me", Scarface though positioned lower than Wesker, seemed to look over him in a sinister manner. "We're going to do it this time Wesker, I'm going to show them all that Scarface is the name to be feared here, not Joker or Artist or any other kind of Arkham reject. ME!"

Wesker begun to walk towards the phone on the other end of the bedroom, ready to inform the others, but not before looking over his shoulder at Scarface sitting on the chair. His memories flashed before his eyes and he saw him as he once was, Woody, sat on a metal chair in his old cell, without the scar that Donnegan had given him. And here he was, again, doing as he was told, without question, without thought or feeling. He picked up the phone.

* * *

Ivory wasn't sure what time it was, but it was dark. She rubbed her eyes and looked around at her empty room, no Joker in sight. She felt a slight chill as she realized she was sill nude, her duvet only faintly covering her up. Her hair was like a lions mane, messy and everywhere like a tornado had hit it. She smiled to herself and bit her lip as she thought about the days events. Even though she was a virgin only a day ago, she figured she'd made up for lost time. She laughed and pulled the duvet over so she could get warm. After a small sleep to recover from her 'activities', she arose and pulled on a large T-shirt walking out her room and into the hallway. She poked her head round the door to her studio, no Joker. She frowned and went to her kitchen, no Joker. Her living room, no Joker. Finally she ran to the bathroom and guess what, no Joker.

She suddenly felt very worried and annoyed, surely he hadn't run out on her?

Ivory decided to take a shower as there was no use just standing there speculating about his whereabouts. She locked the door behind her and shed the baggy T-shirt, pulling it over her bed head hair and discarding it some distance away from her as she stepped up to the sink, looking into the mirror with a tired yet cheeky expression. Her skin was so pale today. almost as if the Jokers had somehow rubbed off on her. Was that even a thing? She noticed a healing cut on her chin from where some shrapnel had hit her during her and Jokers little joy ride a few days ago, she frowned, the vanity inside her upset at her ruined appearance, but the savage chaotic monster inside her enjoying what the cut represented. She stepped inside the shower and drew back the screen, turning on the hot water and closing her eyes.

Ivory was glad the Joker was currently missing. This was her moment to enjoy. She stood there letting the water run over her, making waterfalls and streams across her skin. She grabbed her shampoo, mint and strawberry, and dunked a large amount on her head, feeling its cool, soothing liquid clean her hair as she massaged it. After conditioning it she turned up the hot water until it was near scalding, but she liked it that way. The heat made her pale skin a near raw red and opened up her pores. This was when she suddenly turned it cold, mainly to wake her up properly.

Turning the water off, she got out and put on her bathrobe, fluffy and comforting. A good mood hit her and she smiled, feeling unusually calm and relaxed.

SMASH

The mood immediately disappeared and she found herself unlocking the bathroom door and peeking out. Nothing. She was certain it had come from her kitchen, Joker perhaps? She'd been robbed before, so if that was the case she knew just how to deal with it. She crept back into her bedroom and retrieved from her duffel bag her Shepherd hand gun, making sure it was loaded of course, that could be awkward. Creeping back into the hallway she sidled up to the door of her kitchen, listening. Someone was definitely in there, there was the sound of rustling.

With no hesitation she kicked the door open and aimed her gun at the intruder.

Or rather, the Joker, who above all looked amused at her reaction.

"Oh I see how it is", he begun sweeping up broken glass with a broom, deliberately trying to look as offended as possible while suppressing a smile. "In these mad modern times, even the act of making breakfast is a crime?". He dropped the broom and held out his hands as if to be hand cuffed. "Take me away officer, the sin of cereal and guilt of toast is too much for me to bear".

Ivory could see the growing smile and lowered her gun, a small one finding its ways to her lips as well. However her expression soon became upset. "Where did you go?", was the first thing she asked, looking annoyed.

Joker grinned putting his hands innocently behind his back. "Why darling, whatever could you mean?, can a man not walk to the shops and back to provide his sweet heart a worthy breakfast?", he motioned to the table where a quality morning meal had been laid out. Toast, egg omelet and apple juice. There was even a dark purple vase with a slightly crooked orange rose sticking out, jagged thorns and vibrant petals.

"You . . . you made me breakfast?", she said still a little off guard.

Joker laughed hard at her expression. "HAHAHhehe- of course, where did you think I had gone. I, Joker am a true gentlemen. When it suits me of course. And so like any gentlemen I have made breakfast".

"Yeah but how-", she continued, "Your you . . . do you even, you know, do breakfast".

Joker let out a long suffering sigh, "I can see there is a communication problem here. Me Joker, you Artists. Joker make Artist food", he mimed cooking in a dramatic fashion. "Artist eat food, make Artist happy. Maybe Artist put away gun", he used his fingers as a gun and aimed them at his head.

Ivory put the gun on the counted and walked unsure over to where Joker ha laid out breakfast, as she reached her chair, Joker pulled it out for her. "Madam", he said pushing it in for her as she did so. He sat across from her and watched her intently. Ivory looked down at her omelet and felt her stomach grumble. With a swift action she picked up her fork and begun to eat it. She was surprised at how good it tasted, not sure weather it was because of her hunger or if the Joker was actually a good cook. That would be an interesting bit of trivia, she giggled to herself.

Joker observed her for a bit, happy that she seemed happy, leaning back to eat his own. After a while he pulled out a large newspaper, the Gotham Gazette and started reading it, making the whole scene seem normal, like a cut out of some 50's family show. Ivory watched the tuft of green hair that loomed above the paper as Joker read about their crimes. Once she'd finished eating she continued to watch him with interest.

There was a large black and white picture of the terrible two on the front page. The image showed Joker and Artists, making their get away using penguins umbrella, the picture taken from below making them look rather comical. The headline above it read 'NOTORIOUS SERIAL KILLERS STILL AT LARGE'. Ivory swallowed hard, annoyed that they had not mentioned her name as she would have preferred. On the same page in a smaller font was another story, she had to narrow her eyes to see, 'ARKHAM BAFFLED BY LATEST ESCAPE'. This caught her attention, but as it did a pair of piercing green eyes appeared from above the edge on the paper.

Jokers brows narrowed, but with his mouth covered, Ivory could not tell if it were a smile or a frown they were in aid of. "It would seem Two-face has taken some of the heat off us with a little disappearing act of his own", Joker commented. He wondered how Two-face had escaped and if he had used HIS escape tunnel. Joker was a little possessive of that route, considering it was his favorite way out. However upon his last escape, he had found it quiet fun to play dress up as one of the guards and wondered if Two-face had had any such fun. Joker doubted it, no one knew how to make an escape like him.

"Does that mean we can have fun today?", Ivory asked, rubbing Jokers leg with her foot underneath the table. He reached down quickly and grabbed her foot. It shocked her but he was gentle as he rubbed his thumb over her heel, slowly, pulling it up to rest on his knee.

"Yes it does sweetheart", he said almost growling. Ivory kicked him hard in the stomach which caught him of guard. She climbed across the table and snatched the paper from his hands as he watched intrigued. She sat at the edge and placed her hands on his shoulder, leaning into him.

"I have an idea", she purred at him, "I have a set of keys to Bruce Wayne's Mansion", she winked. "And he did invite me to come and go as I pleased, remember?". Joker gave a sick grin and pulled her onto his lap, wrapping a hand in her hair as he always does. He traced the light cut on her face and licked hi lips.

"Whatever you want darling", he hissed, "Just one condition, no masks, not anymore".

Ivory felt a little uncomfortable, but Artist didn't, before Ivory could talk, words were already spilling out of her mouth. "Of course", she hissed back. Ivory knew her identity would be discovered and didn't care anymore, she was done hiding herself away behind a false face, hers would be her only one from now on. Artist grinned and a million things shot through her head, sculptures, paintings, ideas and plans. And as if Joker could see them rush past in her eyes he held her chin and stared into them, with a sick intention.

"So Arty, what do you want to do?"

* * *

Next chapter already written, in process of editing :)

Thanks for reading.


End file.
